CARET 


SANGSTER 


CROSS  ROADS 


.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY f  LOS  ANGELES 


CROSS  ROADS 


BY 

MARGARET  E.  SANGSTER 


THE  CHRISTIAN  HERALD 

BIBLE  HOUSE 

NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT.  1919,  BY 
MAEGAEET  E.  SANGSTEE 


To  My  Father 


NOTE 

Some  of  the  verses  in  this  book  have  been  printed 
by  The  Christian  Herald,  Good  Housekeeping,  Pic- 
torial Review,  New  Fiction  Publishing  Company  and 
the  C.  H.  Young  Publishing  Company.  I  wish  to 
acknowledge,  with  thanks,  permission  to  reprint  them. 


PAGE 

PREFACE    11 

WOOD  MAGIC   15 

WATEBIN'  THE  HOBSES   17 

AT  DAWN  18 

THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE 21 

To  A  PAIB  OF  GLOVES 22 

PEAKS     23 

LI'L  FELLEB  24 

To  AN  OLD  SCHOOLHOUSE  25 

THE  OLD  SAILOB  26 

THE  RIVEB  AND  THE  TREE 27 

AUTUMN  SONG    28 

SCABLET  FLOWERS    30 

ON  FIFTH  AVENUE 32 

FROM  A  CITY  WINDOW  33 

THE  LADY  ACROSS  THE  COURT  35 

To  A  PORCELAIN  PUPPY  DOG 36 

COLORS      37 

POSSESSION   (A  TENEMENT  MOTHER  SPEAKS) 38 

LIGHTS  OF  THE  CITY  40 

STEEL      42 

Music  OF  THE  SLUMS  43 

"BE  OF  GOOD  CHEEB  !"   49 

FBOM  MY  ROOM  51 

THE  BALCONY  SCENE   52 

A  BOWERY  PAWN-SHOP   53 

SPRING  IN  THE  CITY   54 

LI'L  EMPTY  CLOSET  56 

Two  LULLABYS 57 

I  DREAMED  YOUR  FACE   59 

ANSWEB      61 

A  BABY'S  HANDS  62 

ALL  ALONG  THE  BROAD  HIGHWAY 63 

MY  MOTHER   : 65 

HEREDITY      66 

APBIL     68 

THE  DESERT  PATH  (SEVEN  SONNETS)   69 

SUMMER  SONG  76 

COMPREHENSION  (A  MOTHER'S  SONG) 77 


CONTEXTS  (Continued) 

PAGE 

SINGING  ON  THE  MARCH  78 

EASTER  .- 79 

RESURRECTION  80 

THE  QUEEN  81 

FRAGMENTS  84 

IT'S  LOTS  OF  FUN  85 

VALENTINE  86 

THE  SACRIFICE  87 

To  A  CERTAIN  ROOM  89 

OTHER  DAYS  90 

AT  TWILIGHT  92 

THERE  ARE  SUCH  WEARY  LITTLE  LINES  93 

THREE  SONGS  OF  AWAKENING  94 

IN  A  CANOE  95 

CAPTIVE-HEART  96 

EVENING  SONG 97 

AFTER  A  DAY  OF  WAITING 98 

INTANGIBLE  99 

AT  FIRST  SIGHT  100 

FIVE  SONNETS  101 

FORGIVEN  106 

THE  WRITING  107 

AT  PARTING  108 

WHEN  I  AM  OLD  109 

THE  REFUGE  110 

To  DREAM  ALPNE Ill 

Now  I  MAY  SING  OF  SADNESS 112 

WHEN  WAR  CAME  114 

WHEN  You  WENT  BY 115 

IN  MEMORIAM  116 

A  PEASANT  GIRL  SINGS  117 

TOGETHER  118 

JIM-DOG  122 

Six  SONNETS  124 

AFTER  PEACE  130 

FROM  THE  DECK  OF  A  TRANSPORT  132 

TIM — MY  BUNKIE  134 

A  PRAYER  FOR  OUR  BOYS  RETURNING 136 

PARIS  137 

SONG  FROM  FRANCE  147 

FROM  PARIS  TO  CHATEAU-THIERRY 148 

A  RUINED  CHURCH  149 

CHILD  FACES  150 

AFTER  HEARING  Music  COMING  FROM  A  DEVASTATED 

FARMHOUSE  151 

RETURN  152 

THE  PHOENIX  154 

A  PRAYER  ON  •  EASTER  FOR  OUR  BOYS  KILLED  IN 

ACTION 155 

INDEPENDENCE  DAY,  1919  156 

SHADOWS  158 

L'ENVOI  159 


PREFACE 

The  candlelight  sweeps  softly  through  the  room, 
Filling  dim  surfaces  with  golden  laughter, 
Touching  with  mystery  each  high  hung  rafter, 

Cutting  a  path  of  promise  through  the  gloom. 

Slim  little  elves  dance  gently  on  each  taper, 

Wistful,    small    ghosts    steal    out    of    shrouded 

corners — 
And,  like  a  line  of  vague  enchanted  mourners, 

Great  shadows  sway  like  wind-blown  sheets  of  paper. 

Gently  as  fingers  drawn  across  your  hair, 
I  see  the  yellow  flicker  of  it  creep — 
And  in  a  silence  that  is  kin  to  sleep, 

I  feel  a  world  away  from  pain  and  care. 

Roads  stretch  like  arms  across  the  world  outside, 
Roads  reach  to  strife,  to  happiness,  to  fame — 
Here,  in  the  candlelight,  I  speak  your  name, 

Here  we  are  at  life's  cross  way,  side  by  side ! 


Oh,  there  are  brooks  there,  and  fields  there  and  nooks 
there — 

Nooks  where  a  seeker  may  find  forest  flowers; 
Blue  is  the  sky  there,  and  soft  winds  creep  by  there, 

Singing  a  song  through  the  long  summer  hours. 


WOOD  MAGIC 

The  woods  lay  dreaming  in  a  topaz  dream, 
And  we,  who  silently  roamed  hand  in  hand, 
Were  pilgrims  in  a  strange,  enchanted  land, 

Where  life  was  love,  and  love  was  all  a-gleam. 

And  old  remembered  songs  came  back  to  greet 
Our  ears,  from  other  worlds  of  long  ago, 
The  worlds  that  we  of  earth  may  seldom  know — 

And  to  those  songs  we  timed  our  vagrant  feet. 

We  did  not  speak,  we  did  not  need  to  say 
The  thought  that  lay  so  buried  in  our  hearts — 
The  thoughts  as  sweet  as  springtime  rain,  that 
starts 

The  buds  to  blossoming  in  wistful  May. 

We  did  not  need  to  speak,  we  could  not  speak, 
The  wonder  words  that  we  in  silence  knew — 
We  walked,  as  very  little  children  do, 

Who  feel,  but  cannot  tell,  the  thing  they  seek. 

Beyond  a  screen  of  bushes,  bending  low, 
We  knew  that  fair  Titania  lay  at  rest, 
Her  pillowed  head  upon  her  lover's  breast, 

Her  kisses  swift  as  birds  that  come  and  go! 

And  underneath  a  wall  of  mottled  stone, 
We  knew  the  sleeping  beauty  lay  in  state, 
Entangled  in  a  mist  of  tears,  to  wait 

The  prince  whose  kiss  would  raise  her  to  a  throne. 

Perhaps  a  witch  with  single  flaming  eye, 

Was  watching  from  beneath  the  hemlock  tree; 
And  fairies  that  our  gaze  might  never  see, 

Laughed  at  us  as  we,  hand  in  hand,  crept  by. 


15 


Laughed  at  us?    No,  I  somehow  think  they  knew 
That  you  and  I  were  kin  to  them  that  day! 
I  think  they  knew  that  we  were  years  away 

From  everything  but  make-believe,  come  true. 

I  think  they  knew  that,  singing  through  the  air, 
There  thrilled  a  vague,  insistent,  harp-like  call — 
And  that,  where  woodbine  blazed  against  the  wall, 

You  held  me  close  and  kissed  my  wind-tossed  hair ! 


16 


WATERIN'  TH'  HORSES 

I  took  th'  horses  to  th'  brook — to  water  'em  you  know, 
TV  air  was  cold  with  just  a  touch  o'  frost; 

And  as  we  went  a-joggin'  down  I  couldn't  help  but 

think, 
0'  city  folk  an'  all  the  things  they  lost. 

0'  cause  they  have  their  lighted  streets — their  Great 

White  Way  an'  such, 

0*  course  they  have  their  buildin's  large  an'  tall; 
But,  my!  they  never  know  th'  joy  o'  ridin'  ter  th' 

brook, 
An'  somehow  I  don't  envy  'em  at  all! 

Perhaps  I'd  like  it — for  awhile — to  hear  th'  songs  an' 

laughter, 

But  somehow,  I  don't  know  exactly  why; 
I'd  feel  th'  country  callin'  me;  I'd  long  again  fer 

silence, 
An'  fer  God's  mountains,  blue  against  the  sky. 

I  took  th'  horses  to  th'  brook — to  water  'em  you  know, 

Th'  day  was  pretty  as  a  day  can  be ; 
An'  as  we  went  a-joggin'  down  I  couldn't  help  but 
think, 

0'  city  folk  an*  all  they  never  see ! 


17 


AT  DAWN 

I.    THE  CAVEMAN 

I  live !     And   the   scarlet  sunrise   is   climbing  the 

mountain  steep, 
I  live    .    .    .    And  below,  in  the  caverns,  the  rest 

of  my  clansmen  sleep; 
But  I — I  am  here,  and  chanting,  I  could  slay  a 

beast  with  my  hand, 
And  I  thrill  as  the  mist  of  the  morning  creeps  up 

from  the  rock-strewn  land! 

I  live,  I  have  strength  for  fighting — and  courage  to 
rend  and  slay, 

I  live !  And  my  eyes  are  lifting  to  gaze  at  the  new- 
born day; 

And  I  pause,  on  the  way  to  my  hewn-out  cave, 
though  I  know  that  she  waits  me  there, 

My  mate,  with  her  eyes  on  the  scarlet  dawn,  and  the 
wind  in  her  flame-like  hair. 

I  live — and  the  joy  of  living  leaps  up  in  my  search- 
ing eyes, 

I  live,  and  my  soul  starts  forward,  to  challenge  the 
waking  skies ! 

Far  down  are  the  torrents  roaring,  far  up  are  the 
clouds,  unfurled; 

And  I  stand  on  the  cliff,  exultant,  akin  to  the  waking 
world. 

The  mists  are  gone,  and  an  eagle  sweeps  down  from 

the  mountain  high, 
And  I  wish  that  my  arms  were  feathered  and  strong, 

that  I,  too,  might  fly ; 
I  live!     I  am  one  with  the  morning!     Ah,  I  am  a 

man,  and  free! 
And  I  shout  aloud,  and  the  scarlet  dawn  shouts  back, 

on  the  gale,  to  me ! 

18 


II.    THE  PIONEER 

I  creep  along,  but  silently, 

For,  oh,  the  dawn  is  coming ; 
I  creep  along,  for  I  have  heard 

A  flint-tipped  arrow,  humming; 
And  I  have  heard  a  snapping  twig, 

Above  the  wind's  low  laughter; 
And  I  have  known — and  thrilled  to  know, 

That  swift  they  followed  after! 

The  forest  turns  from  black  to  grey, 

The  leaves  are  silver-shining; 
But  I  have  heard  a  far-off  call — 

The  war-whoop's  sullen  whining. 
And  I  have  been  a  naked  form, 

Among  the  tree  trunks  prowling; 
And  I  have  glimpsed  a  savage  face, 

That  faded  from  me,  scowling. 

A  rosy  color  sweeps  the  sky, 

A  vagrant  lark  is  singing, 
But,  as  I  steal  along  the  trail, 

I  know  that  day  is  bringing 
A  host  of  red-skins  in  its  train, 

Their  tommy-hawks  are  gleaming — 
7  see  them  now;  or  can  it  be 

The  first  pale  sunlight  beaming? 

I  creep  along,  but  stealthily, 

For,  oh,  the  dawn  is  coming! 
I  creep  along, — but  I  have  heard 

A  flint-tipped  arrow,  humming.    .    .   . 
And  yet,  my  heart  is  light,  inside, 

My  soul,  itself,  is  flying 
To  greet  the  dawn !    7  am  alive — 

And  what  is  death — but  dying? 


19 


III.     THE  FABMER 

The  dawn  is  here !    I  climb  the  hill ; 

The  earth  is  young  and  strangely  still; 

A  tender  green  is  showing  where 

But  yesterday  my  fields  were  bare.     .     .     . 

I  climb  and,  as  I  climb,  I  sing ; 

The  dawn  is  here,  and  with  it — spring! 

My  oxen  stamp  the  ground,  and  they 
Seem  glad,  with  me,  that  soon  the  day 
Will  bring  new  work  for  us  to  do! 
The  light  above  is  clear  and  blue; 
And  one  great  cloud  that  swirls  on  high, 
Seems  sent  from  earth  to  kiss  the  sky. 

The  birds  are  coming  back  again, 
They  know  that  soon  the  golden  grain 
Will  wave  above  this  fragrant  loam; 
The  birds,  with  singing,  hasten  home; 
And  I,  who  watch  them,  feel  their  song 
Deep  in  my  soul,  and  nothing  wrong, 
Or  mean  or  small,  can  touch  my  heart.    .    . 
Down  in  the  vale  the  smoke-wreaths  start, 
To  softly  curl  above  the  trees; 
The  fingers  of  a  vagrant  breeze 
Steal  tenderly  across  my  hair, 
And  toil  is  fled,  and  want,  and  care ! 

The  dawn  is  here ! 

I  climb  the  hill ; 
My  very  oxen  seem  to  thrill — 
To  feel  the  mystery  of  day. 
The  sun  creeps  out,  and  far  away 
From  man-made  law  I  worship  God, 
Who  made  the  light,  the  cloud,  the  sod; 

I  worship  smilingly,  and  sing! 
*  "    *       * 

The  dawn  is  here,  and  with  it — spring! 


20 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE 

It  stands  neglected,  silent,  far  from  the  ways  of  men, 

A  lonely  little  cottage  beside  a  lonely  glen; 

And,  dreaming  there,  I  saw  it  when  sunset's  golden 

rays 
Had  touched  it  with  the  glory  of  other,  sweeter  days. 

They  say  the  house  is  haunted,  and — well,  it  is,  I 

guess, 

For  every  emptly  window  just  aches  with  loneliness ; 
With  loneliness  that  tortures  and  memory  that  flays; 
Ah,  yes,  the  house  is  haunted  with  ghosts  of  other 

days. 

The  ghost  of  childish  laughter  rings  on  the  narrow 

stair, 

And,  from  a  silent  corner,  the  murmur  of  a  prayer 
Steals  out,  and  then  a  love  song,  and  then  a  bugle 

call, 
And  steps  that  do  not  falter  along  the  quiet  hall. 

The  story  of  the  old  house  that  stands  beside  the 

glen? 

That  story  is  forgotten  by  every  one;  but  when 
The  house  is  touched  and  softened  by  sunset's  golden 

rays, 
I  know  that -ghosts  must  haunt  it,  the  ghosts  of 

sweeter  days. 


TO  A  PAIR  OF  GLOVES 

Jus'  a  little  pair  o'  gloves, 

Sorter  thin  an'  worn; 
With  th*  fingers  neatly  darned, 

Like  they  had  been  torn. 
Jus'  a  little  pair  o'  gloves, 

Not  s'  much  ter  see.    .    .   . 
Not  a  soul  on  earth  can  guess 

What  they  mean  ter  me ! 

Jus'  a  little  pair  o'  gloves, 

Sorter  tossed  aside ; 
Limp  an'  quiet,  folded  up, 
Like  their  soul  had  died. 
Every  finger  seems  ter  look 

Lonely,  an'  my  hand 
Trembles  as  it  touches  them — 

Who  can  understand? 

Jus'  a  little  pair  o'  gloves, 

Ah,  she  tossed  'em  there.    .    .    , 
Singin'-like,  she  turned  ter  go, 

Didn't  have  a  care! 
Kissin*  them  ?    A  prayer,  a  tear  ? 

God,  my  head  will  bow — 
Jus'  a  little  pair  o'  gloves, 

...     .    .    Emptly,  now ! 


22 


PEAKS 

A  storm  may  rage  in  the  world  below, 

It  may  tear  great  trees  apart; 
But  here  on  the  mountain  top,  I  know 

That  it  cannot  touch  my  heart. 

I  have  struggled  up  through  the  lightning's  glare, 
I  have  walked  where  the  cliffs  fell  sheer 

To  a  gorge  below,  but  I  breathed  a  prayer, 
And  my  soul  passed  doubt  and  fear! 

Here  on  the  mountain  top  the  air 

Is  clear  as  a  silver  song; 
And  the  sun  is  warm  on  my  unbound  hair; 

And  what  though  the  way  was  long  ? 

What  though  the  way  was  steep  and  bleak, 
And  what  though  the  rotd  was  hard? 

I  stand  at  last  on  the  mountain  peak, 
With  my  eyes  upraised  to  God ! 

A  storm  may  sweep  through  the  world  below, 

It  may  rend  great  rocks  apart; 
But  here  on  the  crest  of  the  world  I  know 

That  it  cannot  touch  my  heart. 


23 


LIL'  FELLER 

When  th'  sunshine's  golden-yeller 

Like  th'  curls  upon  his  head, 
Then  he  wakes— th'  HP  feller— 

An'  he  jumps  up,  outen  bed; 
An'  he  scrambles  fer  his  knickers 

Flung,  perhaps,  upon  th'  floor, 
An'  he  takes  his  hat  (my  old  'un), 

An'  he  races  through  th'  door — 
An'  I  hear  his  voice,  a-singin', 

In  his  odd,  ole-fashioned  way, 
'Cause  he's  glad— th'  HI'  feller— 

In  th'  mornin'  o'  the  day. 

Kinder  makes  me  feel,  well,  lazy, 

So  I  hurry  up,  outside, 
Where  th'  mountains  smile  down,  friendly- 

And  th'  earth  looks  sorter  wide; 
An'  I  hear  his  voice  a-callin', 

Sayin',  "Daddy,  come  an'  see !" 
An'  I  find  him  makin'  gardens 

Where  a  rock  pile  uster  be — 
An'  I  shout,  "How  goes  it,  sonny?" 

An'  my  heart  feels  light  an'  gay, 
Fer  he's  singin' — HI'  feller— 

In  th'  mornin'  o'  th'  day. 

Lil'  feller,  an'  his  gardens ! 

It  don't  matter  much  ter  him, 
If  th'  hoein's  hard  an'  tedgious, 

An'  th'  crop  he  grows  is  slim; 
Fer  he  loves  ter  be  a-workin', 

An'  he  loves  ter  see  things  start 
Outer  nothin'.    .    .    .    There's  a  garden 

In  th'  rock-bed  o'  my  heart 
That  he's  planted,  just  by  singin' 

In  his  odd,  ole-fashioned  way — 
'Cause  he's  glad,  my  III'  feller, 

In  th'  mornin'  o'  th'  day! 

24 


TO  AN  OLD  SCHOOLHOUSE 

Down  by  the  end  of  the  lane  it  stands, 

Where  the  sumac  grows  in  a  crimson  thatch, 
Down  where  the  sweet  wild  berry  patch, 

Holds  out  a  lure  for  eager  hands. 

Down  at  the  end  of  the  lane,  who  knows 

The  ghosts  that  sit  at  the  well-scarred  seats, 
When  the  moon  is  dark,  and  the  gray  sky  meets 

With  the  dawn  time  light,  and  a  chill  wind  blows? 

Ghosts — well  not  ghosts,  perhaps,  but  dreams — 
Eather  like  wistful  shades,  that  stand 
Waiting  a  look  or  an  outstretched  hand, 

To  call  them  back  where  the  morning  gleams — 

Dreams  of  the  hopes  we  had,  that  died, 
Dreams  of  the  vivid  youth  we  sold; 
Dreams  of  a  pot  of  rainbow  gold — 

Gold  that  we  sought  for,  eager-eyed  ! 

Dreams  of  the  plans  we  made,  that  sleep 
With  the  lesson  books  on  the  dusty  rack, 
Of  the  joyous  years  that  will  not  come  back — 

That  are  drowned  in  the  tears  we  have  learned  to 
weep. 

Ghosts  did  I  call  them !    Sweet  they  are 
As  a  plant  that  grows  in  a  desert  place, 
Sweet  as  a  dear  remembered  face — 

Sweet  as  a  pale,  courageous  star. 

Where  the  sumac  grows  in  a  flaming  wall, 
It  stands,  at  the  end  of  a  little  lane, 
And  there  do  the  children  come  again, 

Answering,  still,  the  bell's  shrill  call, 

Just  as  we  came,  with  their  songs  unsung, 

And  their  hopes  all  new,  and  their  dreams  dew 

kissed, 
Brave  as  the  sun  in  a  land  of  mist — 

Just  as  we  came  when  the  world  was  young! 

25 


THE  OLD  SAILOE 

IVe  crossed  the  bar  at  last,  mates, 

My  longest  voyage  is  done; 
And  I  can  sit  here,  peaceful, 

And  watch  th'  settin'  sun 
A-smilin'  kind  of  glad  like 

Upon  the  waves  so  free. 
My  longest  voyage  is  done,  mates, 

But  oh,  the  heart  of  me, 
Is  out  where  sea  meets  skyline ! 

My  longest  voyage  is  done.    .    . 
But— can  I  sit,  in  peace,  mates, 

And  watch  the  settin'  sun? 

For  what's  a  peaceful  life,  mates, 

When  every  breeze  so  free, 
When  every  gale  a-blowin', 

Brings  messages  to  me  ? 
And  is  the  sky  so  shinin', 

For  all  it's  golden  sun, 
To  one  who  loves  the  sea,  mates, 

And  knows  his  voyage  is  done  ? 
And,  can  a  year  on  land,  mates, 

Match  with  one  day — at  sea  ? 
Ah,  every  wind  a-singin' 

Brings  memory  to  me  ! 

I've  crossed  the  bar  at  last,  mates, 

My  longest  voyage  is  past, 
And  I  must  watch  the  sunset, 

Must  see  it  fade,  at  last. 
My  steps  are  not  so  light,  mates, 

As  they  were,  years  ago ; 
And  sometimes,  when  I'm  tired, 

My  head  droops  kind  of  low — 
Yet,  though  I'm  old  and — weary, 

The  waves  that  dance  so  free, 
Keep  callin'  to  my  soul,  mates, 

And  thrill  the  heart  of  me ! 


26 


THE  KIVER  AND  THE  TREE 

"You  are  white  and  tall  and  swaying,"  sang  the  river 
to  the  tree, 

"And  your  leaves  are  touched  with  silver — but  you 
never  smile  on  me ; 

For  your  branches  murmur  love  songs  to  the  sun- 
kissed  turquoise  sky, 

And  you  seem  so  far  above  me  that  I  always  hurry 
by!" 

"You  are  laughing  in  your  shallows,  you  are  somber 
in  your  deeps, 

And  below  your  shining  surface  there's  a  heart  that 
never  sleeps; 

But  all  day  you  pass  me,  dancing,  and  at  evening 
time  you  dream, 

And  I  didn't  think  you  liked  me,"  sang  the  birch- 
tree  to  the  stream. 

So  they  got  a  bit  acquainted  on  a  glowing  summer 
day, 

And  they  found  they  liked  each  other  (which  is  of- 
tentimes the  way)  ; 

And  the  river  got  so  friendly,  and  it  ran  so  very  slow, 

That  the  birch-tree  shone  reflected  in  the  water  down 
below ! 


27 


AUTUMN  SONG 

Let's  go  down  the  road  together,  you  and  I, 

Let's  go  down  the  road  together, 

Through  the  vivid  autumn  weather; 
Let's  go  down  the  road  together  when  the  red  leaves 

fly. 

Let's  go  searching,  searching  after 
Joy  and  mirth  and  love  and  laughter — 
Let's  go  down  the  road  together,  you  and  I. 

Let's  go  hunting  for  adventure,  you  and  I, 

For  the  romance  we  are  knowing 

Waits  for  us,  alive  and  glowing, 
For  the  romance  that  has  always  passed  us  by. 

Let's  have  done  with  tears  and  sighing, 

What  if  summer-time  is  dying? 
Let's  go  hunting  for  adventure,  you  and  I. 

Let's  go  down  the  road  together,  you  and  I — 

And  if  you  are  frightened  lest  you 

Weary  grow,  my  arms  will  rest  you, 
As  we  take  the  road  together  when  the  red  leaves  fly. 

Springtime  is  the  time  for  mating? 

Ah,  a  deeper  love  is  waiting 
Down  the  autumn  road  that  calls  us,  you  and  I ! 


28 


The  city — 

Towers  and  canyons,  and  slums, 

Man  built.    .    .    . 

And  souls, 
God  built! 

29 


SCARLET  FLOWERS 

The  window  box  across  the  'street 

Is  filled  with  scarlet  flowers; 

They  glow,  like  bits  of  sunset  cloud, 

Across  the  dragging  hours. 

What  though  the  mist  be  like  a  shroud 

What  though  the  day  be  dreary  ? 

The  window  box  across  the  street 

Is  warm,  and  gay,  and  cheery! 

The  window  box  across  the  street 

Is  filled  with  scarlet  flowers; 

I  almost  catch  their  perfume  sweet.    .     . 

Above  the  sound  of  tramping  feet, 

They  sing  of  country  bowers. 

Against  the  house  that  looms  so  gray, 

They  smile  in — well,  a  friendly  way. 

A  tired  shop  girl  hurries  by; 

Their  color  seems  to  catch  her  eye; 

She  pauses,  starts,  and  wistfully 

She  gazes  up.     It  seems  to  me 

That  I  can  hear  her  longing  sigh.    .     . 

A  little  shop  girl  hurries  by. 

A  newsboy  stops  to  sell  his  wares; 

The  crowds  brush  by  him;  no  one  cares 

To  buy  his  papers.    But  above 

The  scarlet  flowers  bravely  grow 

In  token  of  the  Father's  love.    .     .     . 

The  crowds  brush  coldly  by  below. 


A  blind  man  stumbles,  groping  past; 
He  cannot  see  their  scarlet  shine; 
And  yet  some  memory  seems  to  twine 
About  his  soul. 

For,  oh,  he  turns 
As  trusting  as  a  child  who  yearns 
For  some  vague  dream,  and  smilingly 
He  lifts  the  eyes  that  cannot  see.    . 
A  blind  man  stumbles,  groping  past. 

The  window  box  across  the  street 
Is  filled  with  scarlet  flowers ; 
They  tell  a  secret,  tender,  sweet, 
Through  all  the  dreary  hours. 
And  folk  who  hurry  on  their  way 
Dream  of  some  other  brighter  day.    . 
The  window  box  across  the  street 
Is  filled  with  scarlet  flowers. 


31 


ON  FIFTH  AVENUE 

I  walked  down  Fifth  Avenue  the  other  day 

(In  the  languid  summertime  everybody  strolls  down 

Fifth  Avenue) ; 

And  I  passed  women,  dainty  in  their  filmy  frocks, 
And  much  bespatted  men  with  canes. 
And  great  green  busses  lumbered  past  me, 
And  impressive  limousines,  and  brisk  little  ^lectrics. 

I  walked  down  Fifth  Avenue  the  other  day, 

And  the  sunshine  smiled  at  me, 

And  something,  deep  in  my  heart,  burst  into  song. 

And  then,  all  at  once,  I  saw  her — 

A    woman    with    painted    lips    and    rouge-touched 

cheeks — 

Standing  in  front  of  a  jeweler's  window. 
She  was  looking  at  diamonds — 
A  tray  of  great  blue-white  diamonds — 
And  I  saw  a  flame  leap  out  of  her  eyes  to  meet  them 
(Greedy  eyes  they  were,  and  cold,  like  too-perfect 

jewels) ; 

And  I  realized,  for  the  first  time, 
That  diamonds  weren't  always  pretty. 

And  then  I  saw  the  other  one: 
A  thin  little  girl  looking  into  a  florist's  shop 
At  a  fragrant  mass  of  violets,  dew-purple  and  fresh. 
She  carried  a  huge  box  on  her  arm, 
And  a  man,  passing,  said  loudly, 
"I  guess  somebody's  hat'll  be  late  today !" 
And  the  thin  little  girl  flushed  and  hurried  on, 
But  not  before  I  had  seen  the  tenderness  in  her  eyes — 
The  tenderness  that  real  women  show 
When  they  look  at  vast  rolling  hills,  or  flowers,  or 
very  small  pink  babies. 

I  walked  down  Fifth  Avenue  the  other  day. 
(All  the  world  walks,  leisurely,  down  Fifth  Avenue 
in  the  summertime.) 

32 


FKOM  A  CITY  WINDOW 

The  dust  is  thick  on  the  city  street, 

The  smoke  on  the  city  sky 
Hangs  dense  and  gray  at  the  close  of  day — 

And  the  city  crowds  surge  by 
With  heavy  feet  through  the  summer  heat 

Like  a  sluggish  sullen  tide;    .    .    . 
But  hand  in  hand  through  a  magic  land 

We  are  wandering  side  by  side. 

For  somewhere,  dear,  there's  a  magic  land 

On  the  shores  of  a  silver  sea; 
And  there  is  a  boat  with  turquoise  sails — 

With  sails  that  are  wide  and  free; 
A  boat  that  is  whirling  through  the  spray, 

That  is  coming  for  you  and  me ! 

Somewhere,  dear,  there's  a  singing  breeze 
That  creeps  through  the  laughing  air 

To  the  wide-flung  boughs  of  a  blue-black  tree — 
It  touches  your  joyous  hair; 

And  the  touch  of  it  is  as  soft  and  light 
As  a  baby's  lisping  prayer. 

Somewhere,  dear,  there's  a  bit  of  beach 

Where  the  sand  is  warm  and  white; 
Where  the  sky  seems  close  and  the  drifting  clouds 

Are  tenderly,  warmly  bright. 
And  there  is  a  ship  with  turquoise  sails, 

With  sails  like  a  living  light ! 

Ah,  the  ship  is  bringing  us  dreams  come  true, 

And  hopes  that  are  all  dew-kissed; 
It  is  bringing  us  days  that  are  all  aglow 

With  scarlet  and  amethyst;    .     .     . 
Bringing  us  faith  to  find  our  way 

Through  a  world  that  is  wrapped  in  mist. 

33 


Our  window  looks  on  the  city  street, 

We  can  glimpse  the  city  sky; 
But  our  hearts  are  gay  at  the  close  of  day, 

Though  the  tired  crowds  pass  by 
With  heavy  feet  through  the  blinding  heat, 

Like  a  sullen,  sluggish  tide.    .     .     . 
For  hand  in  hand  through  a  magic  land 

We  are  wandering  side  by  side. 


34 


THE  LADY  ACROSS  THE  COURT 

She  only  comes  when  night  is  near, 

And  stands  a  moment  quietly 
Beside  her  window,  in  the  dusk — 

She  lives  across  the  court  from  me — 
And  though  I  cannot  see  her  eyes 

Because  she  is  too  far  away, 
I  somehow  feel  that  they  are  kind, 

And  very  soft,  and  widely  gray ! 

Her  hands  are  only  dim  white  blurs, 

That  rest  against  the  window  pane; 
And  yet  I  know  that  they  are  firm, 

And  cool  and  sweet  as  April  rain. 
And,  oh,  I  cannot  help  but  wish 

As,  through  the  dark,  I  go  to  bed, 
That  they  might  rest  a  moment  like 

A  little  prayer  upon  my  head ! 

She  only  comes  when  night  is  near, 

I  do  not  know  who  she  can  be; 
I  never  see  her  anywhere 

But  just  across  the  court  from  me.    .     . 
I  am  so  small  the  curtains  hide 

The  wistful  smiles  that  I  have  smiled, 
And  yet  I,  somehow,  think  she  feels  . 

The  love  of  me — a  lonely  child. 


35 


TO  A  PORCELAIN  PUPPY  DOG 

Oh,  pudgy  porcelain  puppy  dog  from  far-away  Japan, 
I  saw  you  in  a  shop  to-day  where  lonesomely  you 

sat 
Upon  a  velvet  cushion  that  was  colored  gold  and 

purple, 

Between  a  bowl  of  goldfish  and  a  sleeping  wooden 
cat. 

I  wonder  what  you  thought  about  as  stolidly  you  sat 

there, 
A  grin  of  faint  derision  on  your  pudgy  porcelain 

face; 
I  wonder  if  you  dreamed  about  some  cherry  blossom 

tea  house, 

And  if  the  goldfish  bored  you  in  their  painted 
Chinese  case? 

I  wonder  if  you  dreamed  about  the  laughter  of  the 

gieshas 

As  languidly  they  danced  across  the  shining  lac- 
quered floor, 
I  wonder  if  your  thoughts  were  with  a  purple  clump 

of  iris 

That  bloomed,  all  through  the  summer,  by  the 
little  tea  house  door? 

I  wonder  if  you  hated  us  who  passed  you  by  un- 
heeding, 
You  who  had  known  the  temples  of  another,  older 

land? 
And,  oh,  I  wonder  if  you  knew  when  I  had  paused 

beside  you 

To  pat  you,  porcelain  puppy  dog,  that  I  could 
understand  ? 


36 


COLORS 

I  love  color. 

I  love  flaming  reds, 

And  vivid  greens, 

And  royal  flaunting  purples. 

I  love  the  startled  rose  of  the  sun  at  dawning, 

And  the  blazing  orange  of  it  at  twilight. 

I  love  color. 

I  love  the  drowsy  blue  of  the  fringed  gentian, 

And  the  yellow  of  the  goldenrod, 

And  the  rich  russet  of  the  leaves 

That  turn  at  autumn-time.    .    .    . 

I  love  rainbows, 

And  prisms, 

And  the  tinsel  glitter 

Of  every  shop-window. 

I  love  color. 

And  yet  today, 

I  saw  a  brown  little  bird 

Perched  on  the  dull-gray  fence 

Of  a  weed-filled  city  yard. 

And  as  I  watched  him 

The  little  bird 

Threw  back  his  head 

Defiantly,  almost, 

And  sang  a  song 

That  was  full  of  gay  ripples, 

And  poignant  sweetness, 

And  half-hidden  melody. 

I  love  color.    .     .     . 

I  love  crimson,  and  azure, 

And  the  glowing  purity  of  white. 

And  yet  today, 

I  saw  a  living  bit  of  brown, 

A  vague  oasis  on  a  streak  of  gray, 

That  brought  heaven 

Very  near  to  me. 

37 


POSSESSION 
(A  TENEMENT  MOTHER  SPEAKS) 

Y'  ain't  as  pretty  as  some  babies  are — 

But,  oh,  yer  mine ! 

Yer  lil'  fingers  sorter  seem  t'  twine 

Aroun'  my  soul. 

Yer  eyes  are  bright,  t'  me,  as  any  star, 

Yer  hair's  like  gol'. 

Some  people  say  yer  hair  is  sandy-red, 

An'  that  yer  eyes  is  sorter  wan  an'  pale, 

An'  that  yer  HP  body  looks,  well,  frail.    ... 

Y'  ain't  been  fed 

Like  rich  folks  children  are.    .     .     . 

It  takes  fresh  air 

Ter  keep  a  baby  fat  an'  strong  an'  pink ! 

It  takes  more  care, 

'N  I  have  time  ter  give.    .     .     . 

An*  yet,  if  God'll  only  let  yer  live — 

When  yer  first  came, 

An'  when  I  seen  yer  face,  deep  down  inside 
My  heart  I  felt — well,  sorter  broke  an'  tore, 
'Cause  when  yer  came  ter  me  I  like  ter  died, 
An'  I  had  lost  my  job,  there  at  th'  store. 
I  looked  at  you,  an'  oh,  it  wasn't  pride 
I  felt,  but  bitterness  an'  shame ! 

An'  then  yer  gropin'  fingers  touched  my  hand, 

As  helpless  as  a  snow-flake  in  the  air, 

Yer  didn't  know,  yer  couldn't  understand, 

('Cause  yer  was  new  t'  this  cold-hearted  land), 

That  life  ain't  fair ! 

Yer  didn't  know  if  I  was  good,  'r  bad, 

'E  much  ter  see — 

Y'  only  knew  that  I  belonged,  an'  oh, 

Yer  trusted  me ! 

38 


Somehow,  right  there,  I  didn't  stop  ter  think 
That  yer  was  white  an*  thin — instead  o'  pink, 
An'  that  yer  lips,  an'  not  yer  eyes,  was  blue.    .     . 
I  got  t'  thinkin'  how,  when  work  was  through 
I'd  sing  t'  yer,  an'  rock  yer  off  t'  rest. 
I  got  t'  thinkin'  that  I  had  been  blessed, 
More  than  th'  richest  girl  I'd  ever  knew ! 
An'  oh,  I  held  yer  tight  against  my  breast, 
An',  lookin'  far  ahead,  I  dreamed  an'  planned 
That  I  would  work  th'  fingers  off  my  hand 
Fer  you! 

An'  mother-love  swept  on  me  like  a  tide, 
An',  oh,  I  cried! 

Some  people  say  yer  hair  is  sandy-red, 

But  they  don't  know; 

They  say  yer  eyes  is  sorter  pale  an'  weak, 

But  it  ain't  so ! 

It's  jus'  because*  yer  never  been  well  fed, 

An'  never  had  a  HI'  cribby  bed ; 

It's  jus'  because  yer  never  had  a  peek 

At  th'  blue  sky — 

That's  why! 

Yer  ain't  so  pretty  as  some  babies  are, 

But,  oh,  t'  me  yer  like  a  silver  star 

That,    through    th'    darkest    night    can    smile    an' 

shine.    .     .     . 

Yer  ain't  as  pretty  as  some  babies  are, 
But,  God,  yer  mine ! 


LIGHTS  OF  THE  CITY 

He  was  young, 

And  his  mind 

Was  filled  with  the  science  of  economics 

That  he  had  studied  in  college. 

And  as  we  talked  about  the  food  riots, 

And  high  prices, 

And  jobless  men, 

He  said: 

"It's  all  stupid  and  wrong, 

"This  newspaper  talk! 

"Folk  have  no  business  to  starve. 

"The  price  of  labor  always  advances, 

"Proportionally, 

"With  the  price  of  food!" 

"Any  man,"  he  said, 

A  moment  later, 

"Can  earn  at  least  two  dollars  a  day 

"By  working  on  a  railroad, 

"Or  in  the  street  cleaning  department! 

"What  if  potatoes  do  cost 

"Eight  cents  a  pound? 

"Wages  are  high,  too.    .    .    . 

"People  have  no  reason  to  starve." 

I  listened  to  him  prayerfully 

(More  or  less), 

For  I  had  never  been  to  college, 

And  I  didn't  know  much  about  economics. 


40 


But— 

As  I  walked  to  the  window, 

And  looked  out  over  the  veiled,  mysterious  lights 

Of  the  city, 

I  couldn't  help  thinking 

Of  a  little  baby 

That  I  had  seen  a  few  days  ago; 

A  baby  of  the  slums — thin,  and  joyless, 

And  old  of  face, 

But  with  eyes 

Like  the  eyes  of  the  Christ  Child.    .   .   . 

A  baby — crying  for  bread — 

And.  I  wondered. 


41 


STEEL 

They  think  that  we're  just  animals,  almost, 

We  men  who  work  with  steel. 

A  lady  visitor  was  here  th'  other  day, 

She  looked  at  me,  an'  I  could  hear  her  say, 

"My,  what  a  life !     I  s'pose  his  only  boast 

"Is  muscles !" 

•  She's  wrong.    We  feel 
A  certain  pride,  a  certain  sort  o'  joy, 
When  some  great  blazin'  mass  is  tamed  an'  turned 
Into  an  engine  wheel.  -  Our  hands  get  burned, 
An'  sometimes  half  our  hair  is  scorched  away — 
But,  well,  it's  fun! 

Perhaps  you've  seen  a  boy, 
Who  did  hard  work  he  loved,  an'  called  it  play? 
Know  what  I  mean?    Well,  that's  the  way  we  feel, 
We  men  who  work  with  steel. 

A  lady  visitor  was  here  th'  other  day; 
She  held  her  skirts  right  dainty  in  her  hand, 
An'  as  she  passed  me  by,  I  heard  her  say, 
"I  wonder  what  he  thinks — or  if  his  head 
"Is  just  a  piece  o'  metal,  too !"     She  said 
It  laughin'-like. 

She  didn't  understand, 

She  couldn't  know  that  we  have  dreams  as  grand, 
As  any  she  could  have.     We  wonder  where 
Th'  rivets  that  we  make  are  goin'  to, 
An'  if  th'  engine  wheels  we  turn,  will  go 
Through  tropic  heat,  or  if  they'll  plow  through  snow ; 
An'  as  we  watch,  we  sorter  grow  to  carp 
About  th'  steel.    Why  it's  as  shiny  blue 
As  jew'ls !     An'  every  bit  is,  well,  a  part 
Of  life  to  us.     Sometimes  my  very  heart 
Thanks  God  that  I've  a  man-sized  job  to  do! 


42 


MUSIC  OF  THE  SLUMS 
I.    THE  VIOLIN-MAKEB 

Over  a  slum  his  sign  swings,  out, 
Over  a  street  where  the  city's  shout 
Is  deadened  into  a  sob  of  pain — 
Where  even  joy  has  a  minor  strain. 

"Violins  made,"  read  the  sign.     It  swings 
Over  a  street  where  sorrow  sings; 
Over  a  street  where  people  give 
Their  right  to  laugh  for  a  chance  to  live. 

He  works  alone  with  his  head  bent  low 
And  all  the  sorrow  and  all  the  woe, 
And  all  the  pride  of  a  banished  race, 
Stare  from  the  eyes  that  light  his  face. 

But  he  never  sighs  and  his  slender  hand, 
Fastens  the  cat-gut,  strand  by  strand — 
Fastens  it  tight,  but  tenderly 
As  if  he  dreams  of  some  melody. 

Some  melody  of  his  yesterday.    .    .    . 
Will  it,  I  wonder,  find  its  way 
Out  to  the  world,  when  fingers  creep 
Over  the  strings  that  lie  asleep? 

Or  will  the  city's  misery 
Mould  the  song  in  a  tragic  key — 
Making  its  sweetest,  faintest  breath 
Thrill  with  sorrow,  and  throb  with  death? 

Maker  of  music — who  can  know 
Where  the  work  of  his  hand  shall  go? 
Maybe  its  slightest  phrase  will  bring, 
Comfort  to  ease  the  suffering — 


43 


Maybe  his  dreams  will  have  their  part 
Buried  deep  in  the  music's  heart.    .    .   . 
Out  of  a  chain  of  dreary  days, 
Joy  may  come  as  some  master  plays! 

Over  a  slum  his  sign  hangs  out, 
Over  a  street  where  dread  meets  doubt — 
"Violins  made/'  reads  the  sign.     It  swings 
Over  a  street  where  sorrow  sings. 


44 


II.     THE  PARK  BAND 

(Side  by  side  and  silent — eagerly  they  stand — 
Souls  look  out  of  tired  eyes,  hands  are  clasped 

together, 
Through  the  thrilling  softness  of  the  late  spring 

weather, 
All  a  city  slum  is  out  to  listen  to  the  band.) 

Young  love  and  Maytime,  hear  the  joyous  strain, 
Listen  to  a  serenade  written  long  ago! 
You  will  recognize  the  song — you  who  care  must 

know 

Fear  that  blends  with  happiness,  joy  that  touches 
pain. 

Rabbi  with  the  grizzled  beard  hear  adventure's  story ! 
Hear  the  tale  the  music  tells,  thrilling  with  ro- 
mance, 

Hear  the  clatter  of  a  sword,  hear  a  broken  lance 
Falling   from   some   hero's   hand,   red   with   blood- 
stained glory. 

(Tenements  on  either  side,  light-flecked  in  the  gloam- 
ing, 

Tenements  on  either  side,  stark  and  tall  and  gray — 
Ah,  the  folk  who  line  your  halls  wander  far  away, 

All  a  crowded  city  slum  is  a-gypsie  roaming!) 

Woman   with   the   brooding   gaze,   hear   the   lilting 

laughter 

Of  the  children  that  you  loved,  feel  their  soft- 
lipped  kisses; 
Think   of  all  the  little  joys  that  a  hard   world 

misses — 
What  though  bitter  loneliness  always  follows  after? 


45 


Gangster  with  the  shifty  eyes,  listen  to  the  sighing 
Of  the  hymn  tune  that  you  heard  at  your  mother's 

knee; 
Listen  to  the  restless  ghost  of  the  used-to-be, 

Listen  to  a  wistful  ghost's  empty-hearted  crying. 

(Tenements  on  either  side — menacing  they  stand — 
Light-flecked  in  the  softness  of  the  late  spring 

weather.    .    .    . 
But  young  love  and  broken  life  are  standing  close 

together, 
And  all  a  city  slum  is  out  to  listen  to  the  band.) 


46 


III.    THE  OEGAN  MAN 

He's  very  old,  his  music  box  is  old  and  rusty,  too, 
And  half  the  notes  of  it  are  harsh,  and  half  of 

them  are  slow ; 
One  wonders  if  the  coat  -Ire-  wears  could  ever  have 

been  new — 

And  if  the  tune  he  plays  was  quite  forgotten  long 
ago. 

He  finds  a  sunny  place  to  stand,  and  lifts  his  bleary 

eyes, 
And  smiles  a  bit — a  toothless  smile  half  touched, 

perhaps,  with  fear; 
And  though  he  cannot  see  them  he  is  looking  at  the 

skies, 

As  if  he  prays,  but  silently,  for  hope  and  faith 
and  cheer. 

The  foreign  women  pass  him  by,  their  tarnished  coins 

held  tight, 
They  toss  their  heads  and  will  not  hear  his  music's 

wistful  hum — 
But  through  each  alley  way  and  street,  like  moths 

that  seek  the  light, 

With  eager  eyes  and  laughing  lips  the  little  chil- 
dren come. 

He  plays  his  ancient,  shaky  song,  his  mouth  moves  to 

it's  sway, 
He  does  not  know  the  tune  of  it  is  old  and  out  of 

key; 
For,  through  his  eyes,  a  soul  stares  out  that  wanders 

far  away, 

In  some  fair  land  of  youth  and  love — some  land 
that  used  to  be. 


47 


The  little  children  cluster  close,  bareheaded,  bare  of 

limb — 
They  hold  their  ragged  frocks  and  dance,  they  do 

not  care — or  know, 
That  they  are  like  a  garden  place,  a  fragrant  dream 

to  him, 

Or  that  the  tune  he  plays  was  quite  forgotten  long 
ago. 


48 


"BE  OF  GOOD  CHEER!" 

Temptation  came  to  me  today, 

And  oh,  I  felt  that  I  must  stray 

Down  primrose  paths,  forgetting  all.    .    .    . 

The  city's  fevered,  siren  call 

Spoke  to  my  soul,  its  whispered  cry 

Said,  "Live,  for  Youth,  too  soon,  will  die!" 

So  all  alone,  when  work  was  done, 
I  sought  the  park.     The  setting  sun 
Had  left  a  bit  of  warmth  for  me — 
I  found  a  bench  beneath  a  tree, 
And  sat  and  thought. 

My  life  is  hard, 

Sometimes  my  heart  seems  battle-scarred, 
With  longings  keen,  and  bitter  fears, 
And  want,  and  suffering,  and  tears. 

Temptation  spoke,  and  Youth  spoke  back; 

The  night  seemed  cold  and  grimly  black, 

And  every  light  was  like  a  star 

That  cleft  the  sky — they  were  so  far, 

So  very  far  away !    And  I 

Was  lonely,  there,  beneath  the  sky.   ... 

There  used  to  be  a  little  farm 

A  tiny  place,  remote  from  harm; 

There  used  to  be  a  mother  frail 

And  sweet,  with  hair  as  silver-pale 

As  the  faint  moon.     She  heard  me  say 

The  words  when  first  I  learned  to  pray.    . 

Above  me  in  the  silent  trees, 
I  heard  the  rustles  of  the  breeze, 
It  sounded  like  her  step,  as  light 
As  dreams  across  an  endless  night. 
My  mother — 

Ah,  the  name  so  sweet, 
Brought  memories  on  noiseless  feet, 
And  softly  in  the  darkness,  there, 
I  breathed  my  little  childhood  prayer.    .    .   , 
49 


Do  prayers  have  answers?     As  I  prayed 

A  Presence  came,  and  gently  laid 

A  Hand  upon  my  arm.     I  knew 

That  Someone  kind,  and  good,  and  true 

Was  very  near.     Upon  my  soul 

A  peace  swept  down,  and  left  it  whole. 

I  felt  a  calm  steal  over  me, 

The  same  that  stilled  the  troubled  sea 

Where  Jesus  walked. 

My  fears  were  laid, 
Temptation  left  me  unafraid. 
And  as  I  smiled,  there  in  the  park, 
A  voice  spoke  through  the  fragrant  dark. 
"Be  of  good  cheer!"  the  words  rang  out 
Like  music  through  the  city's  shout. 

And  all  the  lights  that  I  could  see 
Were  stars  of  home,  agleam  for  me ! 


50 


FROM  MY  EOOM 

I  love  you,  dear.    .    .    . 

Here,  alone  in  my  room  tonight,  it  is  all  that  matters, 

Out  through  my  window,  vaguely  hushed,  the  city 

clatters, 

Telling  ever  its  tale  of  woe  and  mirth, 
Sighing  ever  its  song  of  death  and  birth," 
Singing  ever  its  potent,  mad  refrain, 
Swept  with  tears  and  the  bitter  weight  of  pain. 

Here  in  my  room  I  kneel,  alone,  to  pray, 
But  there  seems  very  little,  dear,  to  say 
Even  to  God.     So,  kneeling  by  my  bed, 
I  think  dim  thoughts,  and  dream  long  dreams  in- 
stead. 

Wide-eyed  I  kneel  and  watch  the  candle  flame, 
Making  swift  shadows  on  the  wall;  your  name 
Throbs  in  my  heart,  and  makes  my  pulse  to  thrill — 
Wide-eyed  I  kneel,  with  soul  a-light,  until 
Somewhere  a  clock  starts  chiming.     .     .     .     It  is 

late.    .    '.    . 

Out  through  the  dark  wan  tenderness  and  hate 
Press  pale  kisses  upon  the  city's  lips — 
Dawn  comes  creeping,  the  weary  nighttime  slips 
Furtively  by,  like  some  hurt  thief  with  plunder.  .  .  . 
Dear,  I  cross  to  my  window,  and  I  wonder 
Whether  you  are  asleep,  or  if  you  lie, 
Sleepless  beneath  the  smoke-hung  purple  sky.    .    .    . 

Down  in  the  streets  the  tired  city  vaguely  clatters, 
Here  alone  in  my  room  I  stand,  and  nothing  matters, 
Only.    ...    I  love  you! 


51 


THE  BALCONY  SCENES 

The  stage  is  set,  like  a  garden, 
And  the  lights  are  flickering  and  low; 
And  a  Romeo  with  fat  legs, 

Is  telling  a  Juliet  with  dyed  hair  and  tired,  dis- 
illusioned eyes, 
That  love — real  love — is  the  only  thing  in  the  world. 

Andiup  in  the  balcony  of  the  theatre 

Where  the  seats  cost  twenty-five  cents, 

A  slim  little  girl  in  a  shiny  serge  frock, 

And  a  boy  with  a  wistful  mouth 

Are  holding  hands. 

And  as  they  listen,  breathlessly,  to  the  studied  voice 

of  the  actor, 

Their  fingers  are  all  a-thrill, 
With  the  music  of  the  ages. 


52 


A  BOWERY  PAWN-SHOP 

A  dusty,  musty  little  shop  set  in  a  dingy  street, 

A  doorsill  old  and  scarred  and  worn  by  many  tired 

feet, 
A  row  of  cases,  vaguely  glassed,  a  safe  against  the 

wall, 
And,  oh,  the  ache  of  many  hearts — the  fabric  of  it 

all! 

A    violin    with    broken    strings    that    fingers    have 

caressed, 
A  diamond-set  betrothal  ring  that  lover's  lips  have 

pressed, 

A  high  shell  comb,  a  spangled  fan,  a  filmy  bit  of  lace, 
A  heart-shaped   locket,   ribbon-tied,   that  frames   a 

laughing  face. 

A  pair  of  blankets  folded  up,  an  overcoat,  a  shawl, 
A  tall  old  clock  that  might  have  chimed  in  some 

wainscoted  hall, 
And  in  the  farthest  corner,  where  the  purple  shadows 

lie, 
The  echo  of  a  woman's  sob,  the  phantom  of  a  sigh. 

Ah,  wedding-rings — a  score  oft  them — not  many  of 

them  new, 

A  grim  revolver  laid  beside  a  baby's  tiny  shoe, 
A  satin  coat,  a  ragged  gown,  a  gold-clasped  book  of 

verse, 
A  necklace  of  bedraggled  pearls,  an   empty   silver 

purse. 

A  dreary  weary  little  shop  set  in  a  sunless  place. 

A  little  shop  where  love  has  met  with  sorrow  and 
disgrace.  .  .  . 

A  row  of  cases,  double-locked,  a  safe  against  the  wall ; 

And,  oh,  the  ache  of  countless  hearts  that  lies  be- 
hind it  all! 

53 


SPEING  IN  THE  CITY 

I  saw  a  crocus  blooming  in  the  park, 
I  felt  a  hint  of  magic  in  the  air, 
I  heard  faint  music  sighing  everywhere, 

And  so,  as  all  the  world  grew  softly  dark — 

I  found  again  the  hope  that  never  dies, 
And  hungrily,  with  out-flung  arms,  I  came 
Once  more  to  you.     And  when  you  spoke  my 
name 

I  read  springtime  eternal  in  your  eyes! 


Rose  petals  in  the  early  rain, 

Forgotten  dreams, 

And  a  torn  sketch  book! 

55 


LI'L  EMPTY  CLOSET 

There's  a  li'l  empty  closet  in  a  li'l  empty  room, 

Where  th'  shadows  lie  like  dust  upon  th'  floor; 
It  uster  be  his  closet  not  s'  very  long  ago — 

That's  why  I  don't  go  near  it  any  more. 
Every  li'l  hook  is  empty,  'ceptin'  one,  an'  from  it 
hangs 

(Th'  whitest  li'l  ghost  that  ever  grew 
In  a  heart  that's  near  ter  breakin'  with  it's  agony  o* 
grief ! ) 

An  empty  flannel  nightie  piped  with  blue. 

Jus'  a  li'l  flannel  nightie  that  was  shrunken  in  th' 
wash, 

In  spots  th'  blue  has  ran  inter  th'  white; 
But  I've  seen  him  in  it,  sleepy,  when  I  tucked  th* 
covers  in, 

An'  kissed  him,  soft,  an  took  away  th'  light. 
Jus'  a  li'l  flannel  nightie,  hangin'  empty  on  a  hook, 

As  if  it  was  ashamed — or  in  disgrace — 
Jus'  a  li'l  flannel  nightie  an'  it  ain't  no  use  no  more, 

But  I  couldn't  bear  t'  take  it  from  its  place ! 

Jus'  a  li'l  empty  closet  in  a  li'l  empty  room, 

Where  th'  shadows  lie  like  dust  upon  th'  floor — 
It  uster  be  his  closet,  where  I'd  put  his  clothes  away, 

That's  why  I  hate  ter  go  there  any  more. 
But  I've  left  his  li'l  nightie  hangin'  on  a  single  hook, 

I  sorter  had  ter  leave  it  there,  I  guess; 
Ah,  that  li'l  empty  closet  in  that  li'l  empty  room 

Is  crowded — crowded  f ul  o'  loneliness ! 


56 


TWO  LULLABYS 
I.    To  A  DREAM  BABY 

Oh,  little  child  whose  face  I  cannot  see, 

I  feel  your  presence  very  near  tonight, 
I  feel  the  warmth  of  you  creep  close  to  me.    .    . 

The  grey  moths  drift  across  the  candlelight, 
And  tiny  shadows  sway  across  the  floor, 

Like  wistful  elves  who  do  a  fairy  dance; 
The  wind  is  tapping  softly  at  the  door, 

And  rain  is  beating,  like  a  silver  lance,       . 
Against  the  tightly  curtained  window  pane. 

Oh,  little  child  whose  face  I  cannot  see, 
The  loneliness,  the  twilight,  and  the  rain, 

Have  brought  your  dearness  very  close  to  me. 
And  though  I  rock  with  empty  arms,  I  sing 

A  lullaby  that  I  have  made  to  croon 
Into  your  drowsy  shadow  ear — a  song 

About  the  star  sheep  and  the  shepherd  moon ! 


57 


II.    POPPY  LAND 

Sleep,  little  tired  eyes,  close  to  the  heart  of  me, 
Sleep  while  the  sun  trembles  low  in  the  west; 

You  who  are  dream  of  my  dreams,  and  a  part  of 

me — 
Sleep  with  your  head  lying  warm  on  my  breast. 

Dear,  there's  a  land  that  is  filled  with  red  flowers, 

Poppies,  they  call  them,  that  sway  in  the  breeze; 
Sometimes  their  petals,  in  soft  scarlet  showers, 
Fall    in    warm    drifts    that    are    high    as    your 

knees.    .    .    . 
Dear,  in  your  dreams  you  will  laugh  as  you  roll 

through  them, 

Waving  your  arms  in  an  effort  to  creep ; 
Gently  they  nod  as  the  wind  sings  its  soul  through 

them, 
Sleep,  little  tired  eyes,  sleep.    .    .    . 

Dear,  in  this  land  there's  a  sky  like  a  feather, 

Blue  in  some  places,  or  white  as  a  star; 
And  there's  a  fragrance — a  plant  that's  called  heather 

Grows  in  the  spot  where  the  butterflies  are. 
Dear,  there  are  pastures  as  gay  as  glad  laughter, 

Dotted  with  hundreds  of  woolly  white  sheep, 
Dear,  you  can  pat  them,  for  they'll  follow  after 

You,  as  you  sleep.    .    .    . 

Dream,  little  tired  eyes,  close  to  the  breast  of  me, 
Wander  in  fields  where  red  flowers  are  gleaming; 

All  of  my  heart  wanders  with  you,  the  rest  of  me 
Watches  your  dreaming.  .  .  . 


58 


I  DREAMED  YOUR  FACE 

I  dreamed  your  face,  one  night,  when  Heaven  seemed 
resting, 

Against  the  troubled  fever  of  the  earth; 
I  dreamed  that  vivid  throated  birds  were  nesting, 

In  trees  that  shook  with  elfin-hearted  mirth. 
I  dreamed  that  star-like  purple  flowers  were  springing 

A-throb  with  perfume  all  about  the  place, 
And  that  there  was  a  far-off  sound  of  singing — 

And  then — I  dreamed  your  face! 

I    dreamed    your    face,    and    then    I    waked    from 
dreaming, 

(The  creeping  dawn  seemed  very  cold  and  bare!) 
The  rising  sun  seemed  pallid  in  its  beaming, 

Because  its  coming  did  not  find  you  there ! 
And  I — I  rose  despondent  in  the  morning, 

As  one  whose  burning  thirst  has  not  been  slaked; 
I  dreamed  your  face,  a  wonder  world  adorning, 

And  then — I  waked. 

And  so  I  went  upon  a  quest  to  find  you, 

A  quest  that  led  through  many  bitter  years; 
I  journeyed  far  with  strands  of  love  to  bind  you, 

And  found,  not  you,  but  bitterness  and  tears — 
So  I  returned,  discouraged,  through  the  gloaming, 

My  shoulders  bowed  with  weariness  unguessed; 
I  came  back,  unsuccessful,  from  my  roaming — 

My  sorry  quest! 


I  had  a  bit  of  garden  that  I  tended, 

It  helped  me  dream,  again,  my  dream  of  you — 
It  was  a  joyous  place  of  colors  blended — 

A  place  where  pansies  and  Sweet  William  grew. 
And  one  bright  day  I  hummed  as  I  was  planting 

A  border  row  of  flowers  slim  and  fair, 
And  raised  my  eyes  to  see  pale  sunlight  slanting 

Across  your  hair! 


60 


ANSWER 

I  am  myself — you  cannot  take  my  dreams 

And  pull  the  filmy  stuff  of  them  apart! 
I  am  myself — and  life  is  what  it  seems. 

I  am  myself,  and  love  is  in  my  heart! 
You  cannot  make  me  think  by  fast  set  rule, 

You  cannot  laugh  beliefs  like  mine  away, 
Experience  may  be  a  bitter  school, 

And  yet.    .    .    .    The  golden  sun  shines  every  day, 
And  stars  at  night  lend  magic  to  the  sky, 

And  all  the  world  is  vividly  a-glow, x 
You  cannot  make  me  pause  to  question  why 

For  we  who  dare  to  dream  have  learned  to  know ! 

The  world  is  right!    There  is  a  friendly  One 
Who  smiles  when  we  have  tried  to  do  our  part — 

I  will  not  flinch,  my  journey's  just  begun.    .    .    . 
/  am  myself — you  cannot  break  my  heart! 


61 


A  BABY'S  HANDS 

God  made  the  rivers,  the  hills,  and  the  seas, 
God  made  the  flowers,  the  grass,  and  the  trees; 
God  made  the  clouds,  and  the  waves,  silver-crested, 
Then  God  made  the  hands  of  a  baby — and  rested ! 

How  did  He  make  them?    Well,  nobody  knows — 
Some  say  He  dreamed  of  the  bud  of  a  rose, 
And  that  He  woke  as  the  dawn  swept  away 
Night  in  the  dancing  pink  promise  of  day. 

Maybe  He  thought  of  the  light  of  a  star, 
(That's  why  He  made  them  as  soft  as  they  are!) 
Maybe  He  watched  while  a  new  butterfly, 
Light  as  a  sunbeam,  went  fluttering  by. 

Maybe  He  walked  in  a  garden,  dew-kissed, 
That's  why  He  made  them  as  frail  as  the  mist — 
Then  as  He  leaned  from  His  heaven  above, 
God  made  them  strong  as  His  greatest  gift — love! 

God  made  the  mountains — we  wonder  at  these — 
God  made  the  splendor  of  sunsets  and  trees; 
God  made  vast  mines  where  a  world's  wealth  is  piled, 
Then  God  made  the  hands  of  a  baby — and  smiled ! 


62 


ALL  ALONG  THE  BROAD  HIGHWAY 

All  along  the  broad  highway  the  little  dreams  were 

growing, 
White  as  hope,  and  red  as  life,  and  bluer  than  the 

sea — 
All   along   the   broad   highway    I   felt   thejr   petals 

blowing, 
Like  a  storm  of  fragrant  snow  across  the  lips  of 

me! 
So  I  danced  with  joyous  heart,  and  bent  above  them 

singing. 
So  I  skipped  along  the  road  and  smiled  into  the 

skies ; 
All  along  the  broad  highway  the  little  dreams  were 

springing, 

Fragrant  as  the  dew  of  stars  and  glad  as  butter- 
flies! 

All  along  the  broad  highway  I  danced  and  sang  un- 
heeding, 
Till  One  came  with  haughty  step  and  traveled  by 

my  side; 
Traveled  first  beside  my  path  then,  suddenly,  was 

leading — 
One  who  drew  me  after  him  and  murmured,  "/  am 

Pride!" 

All  along  the  broad  highway  I  hurried,  ever  faster, 
Faster  through  the  purple  dust  that  blinded  like 

a  mist, 

Blinded  me  until  I  felt  that  only  Pride  was  master 
(And  I  saw  the  little  dreams  through  clouds  of 
amethyst!) 


All   along  the   broad  highway   I   toiled,  no   longer 

glancing 
Anywhere   but   straight   ahead    ...    I    had    no 

heart  to  sing — 
All   along   the   broad   highway,   my   feet  no   longer 

dancing ; 
Followed  I  the  steps  of  Pride,  and  felt  the  thick 

dust  sting 
In  the  tired  eyes  of  me    .    .    .    the  eyes  too  sad  for 


weeping 


Still     I     struggled — struggled     on     until     quite 

suddenly — 
All  the  strength  that  kept  me  up  seemed  drowsy, 

almost  sleeping — 
And  I  paused  with  drooping  head  and  lo,  Pride 

went  from  me ! 

All  along  the  broad  highway  the  silent  dusk  was 

stealing, 
Quite  alone  I  stood  and  stared  about  me  in  the 

gloom ; 
And  the  voice  of  me  was  still,  and  my  heart  was 

kneeling 

Like  a  weary  pilgrim  soul  in  an  attic  room. 
And  I  stretched  my  empty  hands  to  where  the  ghostly 

lighting, 
Showed  a  crumpled  mist  of  blue,  a  heap  of  white 

and  red — 
There   along  the  broad  highway  like  armies  after 

fighting, 

All  the  gallant  little  dreams  were  lying  gaunt  and 
dead! 


64 


MY  MOTHER 

My  mother's   kinder  chubby — she's  fat,   th'  fellers 

say— 

My  mother's  kinder  chubby,  but  I  like  her  that  a-way ! 
'Cause  she's  awful  sorter  jolly,  an'  she  makes  th' 

bestest  pies, 
An'  she  laughs  when  I'm  a-jokin'  'till  th'  tears  are  in 

her  eyes. 
An'  she  pats  me  on  th'  shoulder  when  I'm  feelin' 

sad  an'  blue, 
An'  whispers,  "Little  feller,  yer  mother's  proud  o' 

you !" 

She  don't  wear  silks  'at  rustle,  like  Tommie's  mother 

does, 
But  I  like  her  gingham  better  'cause  it's — well,  just 

'cause  it's  hers ! 
An'  she  don't  look  young  an'  girl-like,  an'  her  hands 

are  sorter  red, 
But,  my,  they're  awful  gentle  when  she  tucks  you 

inter  bed.    .    .    . 

She  hasn't  got  a  di'mond  like  th'  lady  crost  th'  street, 
But  she's  got  two  great  big  dimples,  an'  her  smile  is 

mighty  sweet! 

My  mother's   sorter   chubby — but   say,   her   step   is 

light- 

She's  never  cross  'r  tired — not  even  when  it's  night! 
An'  her  shoulders  just  as  comfy  when  yer  heart  is 

feelin'  sore, 
"When  you  wish  you  was  a  baby — an'  not  a  boy  no 

more — 
Oh,  her  arms  are  cushion  tender  at  th'  twilight  time 

o'  day, 
Yes — my  mother's  sorter  chubby — But  I  like  her  that 


a-way ! 


65 


HEREDITY 

You  told  me,  last  night, 

In  a  strange  and  sudden  burst  of  confidence; 

That  a  New  England  ancester  of  yours, 

Had  burned  witches — 

And  at  last  I  knew.    .    .    . 

Why  your  eyes  are  always  so  grim, 

And  why  your  mouth  is  cut, 

In  a  straight  line, 

And  why  you  can  never  see  beauty  and  mirth 

In  the  sweep  of  wind  over  a  wheat  field, 

Or  in  the  sunlight  on  a  baby's  hair. 

At  last  I  knew 

Why  you  can  never  see  romance 

In  the  long  gypsie  trail, 

Or  magic, 

In  the  still  purple  woods. 

I  knew  why  life, 

To  you, 

Was  something  to  be  struggled  with, 

Not  a  glorious  adventure; 

And  why  death  was  the  end  of  things, 

And  not  the  beginning. 

And  I  knew  at  last, 

Why  you  could  never  understand, 

That  tears  may  cover  laughter, 

And  that  laughter  may  be  a  veil   . 

For  tears. 

You  told  me,  last  night, 

That  an  ancestor  of  yours, 

Had  burned  witches, 

And,  oh,  as  I  sat  in  the  candlelight, 

Watching  you, 

I  couldn't  help  wishing, 

That  somewhere  behind  you,  in  the  shadows, 

66 


There  was  another  ancestor- 
A  gay  cavalier  ancestor — 
Who  rode  hard, 
And  fought  with  his  sword, 
And  wore  his  hat,  rakishly, 
On  the  back  of  his  head, 
And  knew — love. 


67 


APRIL 

I  had  not  meant  to  love  again — all  that  was  lost  to 

me, 

For  I  had  felt  love's  fear  and  pain,  as  well  as  ecstasy ; 
I  closed  my  heart,  and  locked  the  door,  and  tossed 

away  the  key. 

f 

All  through  the  winter-time  I  sat  before  my  flaming 

fire, 
And  listened  to  the  sleigh-bells  chime,  and  watched 

the  flames  leap  higher, 
To  grasp  at  shadows,  sombre-hued,  with  fiendish,  red 

desire. 

And  then  mad  April  came  again — I  felt  the  breezes 

blowing, 
And  I  forgot  the  fear,  the  pain.  ...  I  only  knew 

that,  glowing, 
In  shady  nook  and  garden  spot,  pale  hyacinths  were 

growing. 

And  when  across  the  perfumed  lea  (for  nothing  could 

defeat  him ! ) 
My  vagrant  love  crept  back  to  me  ...  I  did  not 

mean  to  greet  him ; 
But  April  opened  up  my  heart,  and,  oh,  I  ran  to 

meet  him ! 


68 


THE  DESEET  PATH— SEVEN  SONNETS 
I. 

The  camel  tracks  led  whitely  across  the  desert  sand, 
And  one  came  riding  after  with  furtive  mystery; 
Ah,  one  came  swiftly  riding,  a  dagger  in  his  hand, 
And  he  was  bent  on  plunder — a  nomand  thief  was  he ! 
He  did  not  heed  the  starshine  that  glimmered  from 

on  high, 

For  laden  beasts  had  traveled  along  the  lonely  way. 
He  did  not  see  the  glory  that  swept  the  Eastern  sky, 
For  he  had  far  to  journey  before  the  dawn  of  day. 

He  followed  through  the  desert,  and  then  at  last  he 

saw 

An  inn  upon  the  outskirts  of  some  small  village  place ; 
And  there  were  camels  resting  before  the  stable 

door — 
He  left  his  horse,  crept  nearer,  with  greed  upon  his 

face; 
And  peering  o'er  the  threshold,  he  saw  that  gold  was 

piled, 
With  precious   stones  and   incense,   before   a   little 

Child. 


•II 

A  thief  he  was  by  calling,  who  to  the  stable  came, 
A  thief  whose  youthful  fingers  had  learned  to  steal 

their  fill; 

A  thief  he  was,  who  valued  his  heritage  of  shame, 
Yet  standing  by  that  doorway,  he  did  not  want  to 

kill! 

A  thief  he  was,  but — watching — he  saw  a  Baby  face, 
And,  bending  near,  a  Mother,  whose  joy  was  unde- 

filed; 
And  for  one  breathless  moment  across   the   stable 

space, 
The  Baby's  eyes  gazed  at  him — and  then  the  Baby 

smiled! 

A  thief  he  was  by  calling,  but  there  beside  the  door 
He  saw  a  Holy  Vision — he  knelt  and  tried  to  pray — 
And  something,  thrilling,  whispered  of  love  forever- 
more — 

And  then  he  rose,  half  weeping — and  it  was  Christ- 
mas Day! 

A  thief  he  was  by  calling,  who  felt  the  Father's  plan, 
But  back  across  the  desert  there  silent  rode  a  man! 


70 


m. 


The  years  are  met  as  milestones  upon  a  winding  road, 

And  some  slip  by  like  shadows,  and  some  are  fair 
with  flowers; 

And  some  seem  dreary,  hopeless — a  leaden  chain  of 
hours — 

And  some  are  like  a  heart-throb,  and  some  a  heavy 
load. 

The  thief,  a  thief  no  longer,  a  lonely  figure  strode 

Heart-weary  down  life's  pathway,  through  tempest 
and  through  showers, 

But  always  prayed  that  somewhere  among  sweet- 
scented  bowers, 

A  Baby's  smile  might  show  him  where  happiness 
abode. 

For  he  was  often  hungry — a  thief,  reformed,  must 

eat — 
And  there  were  folk  who  shunned  him,  and  turned 

his  plea  away; 
And  there  were  those  who  scourged  him  from  out 

the  market  place — 
(They  were  the  ones  who  told  him  to  earn  his  bread 

and  meat!) 
Yet  ever  he  walked  onward,  and  dreamed  of  some 

fair  day 
When  he  would  find  the  Christ-Child  with  love  upon 

His  face ! 


71 


IV. 


Where  work  lay  for  the  asking  it  seemed  that  men 

might  work, 

But  prejudice  was  rampant  in  every  shop  and  field; 
And,  "What  if  you  are  trying,  my  scythe  you  may 

not  wield !" 
Men  told  the  thief,  'who  answered — "Indeed,  I  will 

not  shirk!" 
And  carpenters  and  builders  turned  from  him  with 

a  smirk, 
And  farmers  hurried  by  him  to  house  the  harvests 

yield. 

And  so  he  took  his  dagger,  all  rusted,  and  his  shield, 
And  sought  again1  the  highway  where  thieves  and 

jackals  lurk. 

And  yet  the  spark  of  manhood  still  flamed  within  his 

heart, 

And  still  he  saw  the  Baby,  beyond  the  stable  door; 
And  oftentimes  at  even,  as  crimson  daytime  died, 
He  knelt,  a  sorry  figure,  from  all  of  life  apart. 
And,  "Oh,  if  I  could  see  Him — and  feel  His  love 

once  more, 
"If  I  could  see  Him  smiling,  I  would  not  steal !"  he 

cried. 


72 


V. 


It  was  a  glowing  ruby  that  caused  the  thief  to  fall, 
But — he  was  very  hungry,  and  lonely,  too,  and  cold; 
And  youth  lay  all  behind  him,  a  tattered  funeral 

pall, 

For  he  was  very  tired,  and  he  was  growing  old. 
It  was  a  glowing  ruby  that  lay  upon  the  breast 
Of  one  who  had  not  earned  it,  who  wore  it  with  a 

sneer ; 

The  thief  was  very  weary,  he  only  longed  for  rest; 
He  was  too  wan  for  caring,  he  was  too  numb  for  fear ! 

It  was  a  glowing  ruby — he  held  it  in  his  hand — 
His  hand  was  thin  and  withered,  it  shook  beneath 

the  gem; 

He  took  the  vivid  ruby,  the  ransom  of  a  land, 
And  tied  it  firmly,  tightly,  within  his  garment's  hem ; 
And    then    he    shuffled    forward,    but   like    a    thorn 

within 
His  soul  he  bore  the  torment  of  bitterness  and  sin ! 


73 


VI. 


They  caught  him  when  the  morning  had  tinged  the 
Eastern  skies; 

The  gem  was  found  upon  him,  as  red  as  guilty  blood ; 

He  stood,  his  head  sunk  forward,  with  listless,  shal- 
low eyes, 

And  hopelessness  submerged  him  like  some  unholy 
flood; 

A  Thief  he  was  by  calling.  The  law?  The  law 
was  great; 

What  chance  had  he  for  pity?  His  fate  was  sealed 
and  done; 

He  was  unclean,  an  outcast,  a  menace  to  the  state ; 

A  thing  to  be  avoided,  a  stain  against  the  sun ! 

They  led  him  to  his  hearing,  the  hall  was  still  and 
light; 

A  judge  was  seated  higher,  who  passed  him  with  a 
glance ; 

And  suddenly,  forgetting  his  weariness  and  fright, 

The  thief  cried,  leaping  forward,  "I  did  not  have  a 
chance !" 

The  judgment  hall  was  spacious,  and  coldly  white 
and  wide — 

And  coldly  came  the  sentence — "He  shall  be  cruci- 
fied!" 


74 


VII. 

They  nailed  him,  God's  creation,  upon  a  cross  of 

shame ; 
They  nailed  him  up  with  laughter,  they  heeded  not 

his  tears; 
And  people  looking  at  him  were  moved  to  soulless 

jeers, 

And  agony  was  on  him — a  searing,  breathless  flame ! 
And  then,  as  he  hung  sobbing,  a  sudden  feeling  came 
Of  peace  that,  reaching  toward  him  across  the  sound 

of  sneers, 
Was  like  a  burst  of  music  that  one  more  feels  than 

hears — 
For,    from    somewhere    beside    him,    a    Voice    had 

breathed  his  name. 

Ah,  he  was  weak  with  anguish,  and  yet  he  turned  his 
head, 

And  saw  a  cross  beside  him,  and  on  the  cross  a  Form ; 

And  he  forgot  the  tumult,  the  horror  and  the  storm — 

And  someone,  down  below  him,  said,  "Look,  the  thief 
is  dead!" 

But,  safe  from  fear  and  torture  beyond  their  scorn- 
ful cries, 

The  thief  had  gazed  at  Heaven  in  Christ's  triumphant 
eyes! 


75 


SUMMER  SONG 

If  I  might  go  with  my  True  Love, 

To  some  far,  dream-swept  land, 
I'd  be  content  to  sit  all  day 

Upon  the  silver  sand, 
And  watch  the  sea  come  creeping  in, 

The  sighing,  singing  sea — 
If  I  might  go  to  some  far  land, 

And  take  True  Love  with  me ! 

If  I  could  go  with  my  True  Love, 

To  some  far,  lonely  place; 
The  world  might  well  be  lost,  and  I 

Could  look  upon  Love's  face. 
And  wealth  would  seem  a  little  thing, 

While  happiness  might  be — 
If  I  could  go  to  some  far  land, 

And  take  True  Love  with  me. 

Ah,  Love  would  smile,  and  ruffle  up, 

The  hair  above  my  brow; 
And  we  would  laugh  at  all  that  seems 

So  very  sober,  now. 
And  monkey-folk,  and  scarlet  birds, 

Would  peer  from  every  tree, 
And  try  to  understand  the  words 

My  True  Love  said  to  me ! 

If  I  might  go  with  my  True  Love, 

To  some  far,  dream-swept  land; 
I  would  not  miss  the  world,  for  I 

Could  always  touch  Love's  hand, 
And  feel  the  magic  of  his  lips — 

Oh,  by  the  singing  sea, 
And  Eden-place  would  bloom  a-new 

For  my  True  Love  and  me ! 


76 


COMPREHENSION—  A  MOTHER'S  SONG 

I  know  how  Mary  felt,  there  in  the  hay, 
My  little  son  was  born  on  Christmas  Day! 

I  know,  as  she  bent  tenderly  above  Him, 

She  did  not  think  of  majesty  or  power, 
For  he  was  her's — and  she  was  there  to  love  Him! 

His  hands,  as  pinkly  tinted  as  a  flower, 
Seemed  all  too  small  to  carve  His  deathless  story — 

What  though  a  star  gleamed  glorious  to  guide 
Him? 

She  snatched  Him  to  her  breast  as  if  to  hide  Him 
From  harm,  and  fear,  and  even — yes,  from  glory. 

And  when  the  wise  men  came  to  give  their  treasure, 
She  smiled  at  them  as  proud  as  any  queen ; 

She  scarcely  saw  the  jewels  in  countless  measure, 
The  gold  that  gleamed;  her  gaze  was  far,  serene, 

Upon  the  hills  where  shepherds  watched,  alone. 
She  did  not  think  of  crosses  or  of  dying, 
For  He  was  just  a  drowsy  baby,  lying 

Wrapped  in  her  love — A  baby — all  her  own ! 

I  know  how  Mary  felt,  there  in  the  hay, 
My  little  son  was  born  on  Christmas  Day! 


11 


SINGING  ON  THE  MARCH 

God  put  a  song  into  my  heart  one  day, 
A  little  song  as  light  as  ocean  foam, 
A  little  song  of  love  and  hope  and  home, 

A  little  song  to  cheer  me  on  my  way. 

And  though  I  bowed  beneath  the  load  I  bore, 
I  found  that,  when  I  sang,  the  way  was  bright, 
And  that  my  footsteps  swifter  grew,  and  light; 

And  all  my  life  seemed  fairer  than  before. 

God  has  a  song  that  fits  in  every  heart, 
And  though  that  song  may  seem  a  tiny  thing, 
It  is  your  task — so  forge  ahead,  and  sing — 

And  you  will  find  that  you  have  done  your  part ! 


78 


EASTER 

He  came  to  call  last  night — 
And  we  began  to  talk,  as  young  folk  will, 
Half  carelessly,  and  half  in  awe,  of  God. 
It  was  the  springtime,  and  the  night  was  still 
And  fragrant,  all  about  us. 

And  the  sod 

Was  fresh  with  tender  grass, 
And  overhead  a  crescent  moon  shone  bright. 
And,  "God,"  he  said,  "Has  built  the  world  on  laws, 
"Like  some  great  watch,  and  every  breathing  space 
"Is  measured;  and  the  system  has  no  flaws, 
"And  nothing  moves  from  its  appointed  place. 
"God  is  the  Master  Scientist,"  he  said, 
His  voice  was  bold  and  had  a  ring  of  truth — 
But  God  seemed  ponderous,  and  far  away.    ... 

And  then  a  gentle  breeze  danced  overhead, 

And  caused  the  timid,  new-born  leaves  to  sway, 

And  we  began  to  talk  of  love,  and  youth. 

And  then,  I  sent  him  home,  and  went  upstairs, 

To  my  still  room,  and  flung  the  windows  wide; 

And  as  I  knelt  to  say  my  evening  prayers 

I  saw  the  stars,  far  smiling,  in  the  sky. 

And,  all  at  once,  I  knew  the  reason  why 

I  worshipped  God    .    .    .    knew  why  He  had  sent 

His  son  to  save  the  world  from  sin  and  shame; 

And,  suddenly,  like  some  sweet,  healing  tide, 

The  meaning  of  my  life  swept  over  me; 

And,  through  the  dark,  my  groping  soul  could  see 

The  Christ  Who  loved  us,  and  was  crucified. 

And,  as  I  knelt  and  watched  the  star's  faint  shine, 
I  felt  God's  hand,  a  moment,  touching  mine! 


79 


You  took  the  lilt  from  my  heart  of  hearts, 
And  the  breath  of  song  from  my  soul; 

And  the  mind  of  me  that  had  once  been  free 
And  buoyantly  young,  and  whole; 

Grew  calm  and  still  as  a  barren  sea, 
Where  never  a  star  beam  shone, 

A  sea  where  never  a  ripple  danced — 
That  reflected  your  face  alone. 

I  walked  in  a  daze  down  well-worn  paths — 

Paths  that  your  feet  had  trod; 
I  thought  your  thoughts  and  I  spoke  your  tongue, 

I  knelt  to  your  hostile  God. 
And  the  dreams  that  had  been  a  part  of  me, 

I  tossed  with  a  sigh  away, 
And  left  to  rust  in  the  misty  dust 

Of  the  land  called  Yesterday. 

My  hands  lay  folded  in  slim  repose, 

Quite  as  you  bade  them  rest; 
Folded,  meek,  o'er  the  leaden  heart 

That  tortured  my  gypsie  breast. 
And  I  smiled  with  my  lips — my  eyes  were  numb — 

I  smiled  for  I  never  knew, 
That  the  mind  of  me  was  a  lifeless  sea, 

Reflecting  the  face  of  you! 

You  took  the  lilt  from  my  carefree  life, 

And  the  song  from  my  singing  heart; 
But  there  came  a  day  when  the  world  grew  gray, 

When  I  knew  that  we  must  part.    .    .    . 
So  I  tore  you  out  of  your  soul-bound  shrine — 

And,  oh,  though  it  caused  me  pain, 
I  raised  my  face  to  the  sky  and  knew 

That  my  song  would  come  again ! 


80 


THE  QUEEN 

"Barefooted  came  the  beggar  maid," 

So  ran  the  minstrel's  lay — 
"Barefooted  came  the  beggar  maid 

"Before  the  King  Corpethua." 
But,  oh,  her  face  was  like  a  light, 
Her  hair  was  black  as  middle  night, 
And  whispers  ran  from  left  to  right — 

"She  is  more  beautiful  than  day!" 

"In  robe  and  crown  the  king  stepped  down," 

So  ran  the  minstrel's  lay — 
"In  robe  and  crown  the  king  stepped  down, 

"To  meet  and  greet  her  by  the  way." 
And  so  the  beggar  maid  became, 
A  Queen,  but  just  a  queen  in  name, 
For,  with  her  gypsie  eyes  aflame, 

Her  mirror  heard  her  say — 

I  was  a  beggar  maid,  I  used  to  lie 

Silent  and  unafraid,  beneath  the  sky, 

And  watch  the  stars — my  little  sisters,  they, 

I  used  to  wake  at  dawning  time  of  day 

To  plunge  my  body  in  some  mountain  stream — 

I  was  a  beggar  maid ! 

Is  this  a  dream, 

This  golden  crown  I  wear  upon  my  head? 
This  robe  of  royal  purple  and  of  red, 
This  rope  of  pearls,  this  ring,  these  silken  shoon? 

Not  long  ago  the  silver  crescent  moon 

Was  like  a  hand  that  beckoned  me  to  stray, 

And  cities  seemed  vast  centuries  away; 

And  as  my  feet — swift  feet,  they  were,  and  light — 

Carried  me  through  the  wonder  of  the  night, 

I  never  thought  of  kings,  or  kingly  power — 

My  life  was  all  one  splendid,  singing  hour! 

81 


I  love  my  king — He  raised  me  from  the  dust, 
And  looked  at  me  with  wonder,  and  with  trust; 
My  hair  hung,  tangled,  to  the  waist  of  me, 
He  brushed  it  from  my  eyes,  that  he  might  see 
Deep  into  them ! 

He  set  me  on  his  steed, 

He  never  knew  my  name,  or  asked  my  creed, 
He  just  believed  in  me — and  told  me  so. 
I  love  my  king,  I  love  him  well,  but,  oh — 
Once  I  wore  poppies,  red  upon  my  brow, 
(A  crown  seems  very  heavy  to  me,  now,) 
And  once  J  wore,  for  all  the  world  to  see 
A  gown  of  rags.     (Now,  velvets  stifle  me!) 
And  once  my  hands  (how  soft  they  are!)  were  strong 
To  toil  for  me. 

The  days  seem  very  long 
While  I  must  sit  in  state  above  the  land — 
I  love  my  king   .    .    .    But  does  he  understand? 
I  was  a  beggar  maid,  I  used  to  lie 
Silent  and  unafraid  beneath  the  sky — 
And,  now  that  I  am  queen,  my  being  longs 
To  hear,  once  more,  the  little  slumber  songs 
Of  night  birds  nesting  in  some  forest  tree — 
I  want  to  be  myself,  again,  and  free! 
I  want  to  climb  the  crest  of  some  great  hill, 
And  watch  the  sunset  clouds,  again,  and  thrill 
Before  the  color  of  them !     I  would  stand 
Alone,  once  more,  and  see  the  wistful  land 
Take  on  the  tint  of  twilight. 

I  would  pray 
My  gypsie  prayer,  again,  at  close  of  day! 

I  love  my  king — for  he  has  given  me 
Eare  pearls,  the  treasure  of  a  sighing  sea, 
And  rubies,  red  as  sunset  clouds  a-glow 
And  opals  like  the  wistful  winds  that  blow 
At  twilight-time. 


82 


But  I  would  wear,  instead, 
Wild  forest  flowers,  twined  about  my  head — 
And  I  would  dance,  barefooted,  on  the  sod, 
An  innovation  to  my  pagan  God ! 

Am  I  a  queen?    What  is  this  crown  I  wear? 
I  tear  it  from  my  smoothly  plated  hair — 
I  lay  my  ring,  my  rope  of  pearls,  aside; 
Am  I  a  queen — am  I  a  monarch's  bride? 
The  soul  of  me  is  still  a  gypsie  thing — 
I  pull  them  off,  the  glowing  gems,  the  ring.    . 

I  love  my  king,  I  love  him  well — but,  oh, 
Give  me  my  rags,  again,  and  let  me  go! 


83 


FRAGMENTS 
A  WITHERED  ROSE 

A  book  of  verse, 

And  one  withered  rose 

Between  two  pages.    .    .    . 

My  love  is  as  faded  as  the  petals, 
But  still  faintly  fragrant 
With  sweet  memories. 

ASHES  OF  LOVE 

Dust  on  the  letters  you  sent  me 

And  I  did  not  know  that  they  had  been  forgotten. 

Does  it  mean  that  I  love  again? 


84 


IT'S  LOTS  OF  FUN— 

It's  lots  of  fun  to  play  around, 

To  dance  and  sing; 
And  not  be  tied  to  anyone, 

Or  anything! 

It's  lots  of  fun  to  live  my  life, 

Beneath  the  sky; 
To  have  no  one  who  owns  the  right 

To  question  "Why"? 

It's  lots  of  fun  to  come  and  go, 
Through  storm  and  strife, 

With  no  one  by  my  side  who  hopes 
To  mould  my  life. 

(But  sometimes  at  the  twilight  time, 

When  night  birds  cry; 
I  dream,  perhaps,  that  something  fair 

Has  passed  me  by ! ) 

And  yet — it's  good  to  play  around, 

To  laugh  and  sing; 
And  not  be  tied  to  anyone, 

Or  anything ! 


85 


VALENTINE 

I  wonder  if  you  know,  up  there  in  heaven, 

That  I  have  kept  your  roses,  crumpled  now. 
I  wonder  if  you  guess  that  still  I  treasure 

A  faded  ribbon  that  once  touched  your  brow. 
I  wonder  if  you  dream,  as  dusk  is  falling, 

Of  how  I  read  that  note  you  sent  to  me. 
I  wonder  if  you  think,  up  there  in  heaven, 

Of  all  the  golden  dav?  that  used  to  be. 

I  wonder  if  you  smile  up  there  in  heaven, 

And  pass  by,  lightly,  in  your  robes  of  white ; 
Or  if  you  sometimes  think  of  me  a  little. 

You  seem  so  near,  so  very  near  tonight. 
I  wonder  if  that  last  shy  kiss  I  gave  you 

Can  make  you  lonely,  just  a  bit,  for  me. 
I  wonder  if  you  long,  up  there  in  heaven, 

For  all  the  golden  plans  that  used  to  be. 

Do  they  have  valentines  up  there  in  heaven  ? 

A  love  like  mine  is  surely  strong  to  go 
The  little  way  from  earth  to  where  you  wait  me, 

Although  it  be  beyond  the  stars'  faint  glow. 
I  want  you  dear ;  my  tired  heart  is  calling ; 

My  eyes  are  searching,  though  they  may  not  see; 
I  wonder  if  you're  lonely,  there  in  heaven, 

For  all  the  golden  dreams  that  used  to  be. 


86 


THE  SACRIFICE 

I  started  out  in  a  cloak  of  pride, 

With  talent,  too,  that  I  did  not  hide; 

I  started  out  on  Life's  stony  road, 

Ambition's  weight  was  my  only  load, 

And  the  way  seemed  fair  in  the  dawn's  first  glow, 

And  I  hurried — ran — for  I  did  not  know! 

Love  smiled  from  a  garden  by  the  way, 

And  called  to  me,  but  I  would  not  stray 

From  the  road  that  stretched  like  a  ribbon  white, 

Up  endless  hills  to  an  endless  night. 

Love  smiled  at  me,  but  I  pushed  ahead, 

And  love  fell  back  in  the  garden — dead — 

But  I  did  not  care  as  I  hastened  by, 

And  I  did  not  pause  for  regret  or  sigh.    .    .    . 

The  road  before  was  a  path  of  hope, 

And  every  hill  with  'its  gentle  slope 

Led  up  to  heights  I  had  dreamed  and  prayed 

To  reach  some  day — 

Ah !  I  might  have  stayed 
With  Love  and  Youth  in  the  garden  gay, 
That  smiled  at  me  from  beside  the  way. 

I  plodded  up,  and  the  gentle  hills 

Grew  hard  to  climb,  and  the  laughing  rills 

Were  torrents  peopled  with  sodden  forms; 

The  sky  grew  black  with  the  threat  of  storms, 

And  rocks  leaped  out  and  they  bruised  my  feet, 

And  faint  I  grew  in  the  fever  heat. 

(But  ever  on  led  the  path  that  lay 

As  grey  as  dust  in  the  waning  day.) 

My  back  was  bent,  and  my  heart  was  sore, 

And  the  cloak  of  pride  that  I  grandly  wore 

Was  rent  and  patched  and  not  fair  to  see — 

Ambition,  talent,  seemed  naught  to  me.    .    .    . 

But  I  struggled  on  'till  I  reached  the  top, 

For  only  then  did  I  dare  to  stop! 

87 


I  stood  on  the  summit  gazing  down, 

And  the  earth  looked  sordid  and  dull  and  brown, 

And  neutral-tinted  and  neutral-souled ; 

And  all  of  life  seemed  a  story  told, 

And  the  only  spot  that  was  bright  to  see 

Was  a  patch  of  green  that  had  bloomed  for  me 

Where  a  garden  lived  in  a  spring  long  fled, 

When  Love  stood  smiling — 

But  love  was  dead! 


88 


TO  A  CERTAIN  ROOM 

Your  room  is  still  the  dainty  little  place, 

That  used  to  seem  so  much  a  part  of  you — 

The  draperies  of  faded  rose  and  blue 
Still  hold  a  shadow  of  their  former  grace. 
The  windows  still  are  hung  with  frosty  lace, 

And   sometimes,    when   the    moonlight   glimmers 
through, 

I  watch  your  mirror,  half  expecting  to 
See  once  again,  reflected  there,  your  face! 

And  yet,  the  little  room  seems  much  too  neat, 
It  seems  quite  colorless,  and  very  bare, 
Because  the  filmy  things  you  used  to  wear 

Are  laid  away.     Because  the  perfume  sweet 

That  clung  about  you  has  been  swept  aside.    .    .    . 
Your  room  is  there — but,  oh,  its  soul  has  died ! 


89 


OTHEE  DAYS 

I  wonder  if  you  ever  dream  of  other  days, 
Because,   sometimes,   at   twilight   when    the    sunset 

plays 

Half  wistfully  across  the  polished  oaken  floor, 
I  see  you  smiling — standing  in  your  place  once  more. 

(Do  you  remember  little  things  we  used  to  say? 
They  wouldn't  mean  so  very  much  to  us  to-day.  .  .  . 
Do  you  remember  how  I  wore  a  gown  of  blue, 
Because  it  brought  the  haze  of  autumn  clouds  to  you  ? 
Do  you  remember  how  I  said  you  didn't  care — 
And  how  you  laughed  at  me  and  rumpled  up  my 

hair? 

Do  you  remember  how  the  tears  stood  in  my  eyes 
At  your  good-by  when  darkness  overhung  the  skies?) 

I  wonder  if  you  ever  dream  of  other  days? 
Because,  sometimes  at  twilight  when  the  sunset  plays 
Half  wistfully  across  your  empty  cozy-chair, 
I  turn  and  half  expect  to  see  you  smiling  there! 


90 


This  is  to  you,  dear, 
To  you,  unknowing; 
Just  as  the  south  wind 
Wistfully  blowing 
Touches  some  flower — 

So  is  my  song,  dear, 
Through  every  hour, 
All  the  day  long,  dear, 
To  you,  unknowing! 


91 


AT  TWILIGHT 

You  came  to  me  through  the  candlelight, 
When  the  world,  outside,  was  grey.    .    .    . 
You  came  to  me  through  the  candlelight 
When  the  day  was  done,  and  the  misty  night 
Crept  through  the  land. 

And  your  eyes  were  bright, 
And  they  seemed  to  laugh  and  pray. 
You  came  to  me  through  the  candlelight, 
And  you  took  my  hands,  and  you  held  them  tight, 
And  you  didn't  speak,  but,  dear,  I  knew — 
And  my  heart  and  my  soul  were  part  of  you. 

You  came  to  me  through  the  candlelight, 

When  the  world,  outside,  was  grey; 

And  I  looked  in  your  eyes  and,  glowing  there, 

I  saw  a  hope  and  I  read  a  prayer; 

And  I  knew,  at  last,  that  I  didn't  care, 

If  life  were  a  troubled,  weary  way, 

As  long  as  I  walked  with  you. 

You  came  to  me,  at  the  close  of  day, 

Through  the  candlelight — when  the  world  was  grey — 

And  dreams  of  Heaven  seemed  strangely  new.    .    .    . 

And  I  told  you,  dear,  to  stay ! 


92 


THERE  ARE  SUCH  WEARY  LITTLE  LINES 
There  are  such  weary  little  lines  about  the  mouth  of 

you, 

Such   tragic    little    mirthless    lines — they    mock    at 

dreams  come  true, 
And  twist  your  lips  when  you  would  smile,  until  all 

joy  is  dead, 
And  I,  who  want  to  laugh  with  you,  am  fain  to; 

weep  instead ! 

There  are  such  dreary  little  lines  about  the  mouth  cf 

you, 

They  make  me  want  to  whisper  that  summer  sky  is 

blue, 
And  that  the  rain  is  like  a  lance  of  silver  through 

the  air, 
And  that  the  flowers  in  the  lane  are  growing  tall 

and  fair ! 

There  are  such  tired  little  lines  about  the  mouth  of 

you— 
As  if  you  thought  that  life   was   cold  and  loving 

friends  were  few.    .    .    . 
They  are  such  lonely  little  lines  I  think  that  I,  some 

day, 
Will  creep  close  to  you  in  the  dusk,  and  kiss  them 

quite  away! 


93 


THKEE  SONGS  OF  AWAKENING 


The  flowers  spring  from  the  broken  heart, 

Of  the  frozen  winter  sod — 
Rending  their  prison  bars  apart, 

They  smile  in  the  face  of  God! 

The  birds  sweep  up  to  the  wind-blown  plain, 

E'er  ever  the  land  knows  spring; 
To  sway  on  a  budding  branch  again, 
To  challenge  the  world,  and  sing! 

And  I  with  my  tired  eyes  a-dance, 

And  my  weary  heart  a-flame; 
Have  felt  the  call  of  the  old  romance, 

And  thrilled  to  a  whispered  name ! 


2. 


I  saw  a  sky  as  blue  as  eyes  I  know, 
I  felt  a  breeze,  as  soft  as  kisses,  blow; 

And,  dear,  I  saw  one  golden  sunbeam  creep 
From  Heaven,  lighting  all  the  world  below, 

Like  love  that  wakens,  dewy-eyed,  from  sleep ! 


3. 


We  who  have  wondered  know  the  answer,  now; 
For  Spring  stands,  joyous,  on  the  purple  brow 
Of  the  far  hill;  and  doubt  is  swept  away, 
And  all  the  mirth-mad  world  makes  holiday ! 

We  who  have  wandered  long,  and  half  afraid, 
Find  answer  in  each  dreaming  woodland  glade; 
Hearts  that  have  broken  may  be  bound  together, 
When  Spring  has  triumphed  over  winter  weather! 

94 


IN  A  CANOE 

Starlight,  and  the  silver  lake 

Clasp  the  skies — 
And  two  nearer,  dearer  stars, 

Your  eyes! 

Elfin  voices  seem  to  call 

Through  the  night, 
But  your  arms  are  warm,  and  they 

Hold  me  tight. 

Pallidly  the  moon  slides  down, 
Hour  by  hour  slips; 

Ah,  the  deathless  magic  of 
Your  lips-! 

Dark  the  shadows  as  we  creep 

Past  the  shore — 
Dear,  that  we  might  drift  like  this 

Evermore ! 


95 


CAPTIVE-HEART 

N"ow  that  the  day  is  done  I  am  ready  to  greet  you, 
Smiling,  the  way  that  I  know  you  would  have  me 

smile ; 
I  will  open  the  door,  and  will  run  down  the  walk 

to  meet  you, 

As  if  I  had  missed  you,  dear,  for  a  weary  while ! 
I  will  listen,  breathless,  the  while  you  tell  of  your 

toiling, 

All  day  long  in  the  dust  and  the  city's  heat; 
And,  dear,  you  will  never  know  that  my  blood  is 

boiling — 
Back  of  the  smile  that  is  calm  and  tenderly  sweet. 

You  will  never  know  that  the  soul  of  me,  dear,  is 

flying, 

Out  where  the  seagull  dips  in  the  ocean's  foam ; 
You  will  never  know  that  something  of  me  is  dying, 

Every  night  as  I  smile  and  welcome  you  home. 
You  will  never  know  that  my  heart  is  soaring  above 

you — 

You  will  be  content  with  my  mask  of  a  smile — 
knowing  I  love  you! 


96 


EVENING  SONG 

I  do  not  want  to  be  worshipped, 

From  a  distance; 

Like  some  idol  carved  in  wood, 

Or  stone. 

I  want  to  be  loved 

As  every  real  woman 

Wants  to  be  loved! 

And  so.    ... 

Lay  aside  the  book  that  you  are  reading  from — 

What  if  Leandor  did  swim  the  Hellespont? 

And  what  if  burning  Sappho 

Did  sing? 

What  do  I  care  for 

Launcelot  and  Elaine, 

Or  Tristram  and  Isolt, 

Or  Aucassin  and  Nicholette? 

• 

Lay  aside  the  book  that  you  are  reading  from, 

And  cross  the  room  quickly, 

And  take  my  cold  hands  between  your  two 

Warmer  ones.    .    .    . 

And  here,  in  the  vivid  dusk, 

We  will  make  our  own  love  songs! 


97 


AFTER  A  DAY  OF  WAITING 

All  day  long  I  waited — waited  with  soul  aflame — 
And  then  through  the  still  of  evening,  humming  a 

tune,  you  came; 
Came  with  a  jest  on  your  smiling  lips,  and  eyes  that 

were  all  too  gay; 
And  the  light  died  out  of  my  waiting  heart  with  the 

words  that  I  could  not  say. 

We  laughed  through  the  star-flecked  twilight — what 

though  my  laugh  was  strained? 
You,  who  were  there  beside  me,  laughed  with  a  mirth 

unfeigned ! 
And  at  last  when  I  bade  you  leave  me  you  went,  and 

you  never  knew 
That  with  soul  aflame  I  had  waited,  all  through  the 

day,  for  you. 


98 


INTANGIBLE 

Dear,  you  are  like  the  summer  dusk  to  me, 

The  summer  dusk  when  all  the  world  seems  still; 

When  purple  shadows  creep  along  the  hill, 

And  birds  are  softly  crooning  in  each  tree. 

You  are  the  gentle-cool-eyed  mystery 

Of  twilight  hours.    Sometime  I  think  you  will 

Melt  from  me  out  into  the  dark,  until 

You  turn  to  star-shine,  silvering  the  sea. 

Dear,  even  when  your  head  is  on  my  breast, 
You  seem  no  nearer  than  a  moonbeam  thrown 
Across  my  heart.    Your  fingers  have  caressed 
My  hair  so  lightly  that  I  scarce  have  known 
Their  pressure.     You  are  like  that  time  when  rest 
Steals  up  so  softly  that  one  feels  alone ! 


99 


AT  FIEST  SIGHT 

Seeing  you  once,  how  can  I  forget 
That  our  eyes  have  smiled  and  our  hands  have  met? 
That  our  souls  have  known  and  our  hearts  have  cried, 
Though  our  lips  were  dumb. 

Ah,  the  world  is  wide, 
And  love  there  is  for  us  both  to  know — 
But  my  eyes  were  dim  as  I  watched  you  go ! 

You  may  wander  far,  you  may  come  no  more, 
But  you  hold  the  key  to  the  inmost  door 
Of  my  heart  of  hearts ! 

For  our  hands  have  met, 
And  our  eyes  have  smiled,  and  /  can't  forget! 


100 


FIVE  SONNETS 
I.    THE  COMING 

I  know  that  Love  will  come  to  me,  some  day, 

Though  I  have  never  loved,  or  looked  on  Love; 
I  know  that  Love  will  wait  beside  the  way 

And  smile  at  me.    The  tender  skies  above 
Will  be  alight  with  all  the  joy  of  spring, 

And  flowers  will  lift  their  heads  above  the  earth, 
And  some  far  bird  will  stay  its  flight  and  sing, 

And  fill  the  land  with  silver  throated  mirth. 

I  know  that  Love,  at  last,  with  smiling  eyes, 
Will  pause  beside  my  half-swung  cottage  door, 

And  I  will  lift  my  gaze,  without  surprise, 
To  see  his  shadow  dance  across  the  floor. 

I  know  that  Love  will  come  to  me,  some  day, 

When  springtime  blossoms,  shyly,  into  May! 


101 


II.    EEALIZATION 

I  know  that  you  are  not  the  one  that  I 

Should  fall  in  love  with,  for  your  eyes  are  blind 
To  all  the  things  that  make  my  world  the  kind 

I  want  to  live  in.     Often,  when  I  cry 

At  some  vague  beauty  that  has  caught  my  eye, 
You  laugh !    You  cannot  dream  the  dreams  I  find, 
In  forest  places  where  dim  pathways  wind 

Up  to  the  Heaven-land  so  far  and  high. 

I  know  that  I  should  never  learn  to  care, 

And  yet,  sometimes  the  blueness  of  your  eyes 
Can  make  me  half  forget  the  smiling  skies.    .    .    . 
And,  when  I  see  the  sunlight  on  your  hair, 
I  do  not  stop  to  reason,  dear,  for  oh — 
My  heart  throbs  faster,  and  I  know — I  know! 


102 


III.    THE  RAIN  OUTSIDE 

You  close  beside  me,  and  outside,  the  rain, 

Which,  stealing  through  the  darkness  of  the  night, 
Seems  tapping  out  with  fingers  softly  light, 

A  world-old  song  upon  my  window  pane — 

A  song  of  happiness  with  a  refrain 

That  throbs  in  suffering.     You  hold  me  tight, 
Your  eyes,  that  search  my  own,  are  warmly  bright, 

Your  lips  touch  mine  again,  and  yet  again ! 

Ah,  what  though  years  must  pass,  though  you  and  I 
May  live  our  lives,  quite  silently,  apart? 

Whenever  rain  comes,  when  the  day  is  through, 

And,  tapping  on  my  casement,  seems  to  sigh, 
A  dream  will  blossom,  fragrant,  in  my  heart, 

A  dream  of  youth  eternal,  and  of — you. 


103 


IV.    I  USED  TO  WHITE 

I  used  to  write  so  many  songs  of  love — 

I  wrote  them  carefully,  I  did  not  know 
That  love  was  more  than  moonlight  from  above, 

And  pretty  words  set  in  an  even  row. 
I  held  my  pencil  calmly  in  my  hand, 

And  sang  of  arms  and  lips  and  tender  eyes; 
I  wrote  of  love — who  did  not  understand — 

And  hoped  that  folk  would  think  me  very  wise 

I  used  to  write  so  many  songs    .    .    .    To-day 
My  hands  are  folded,  and  I  cannot  sing, 

I  sit,  instead,  and  watch  the  sunlight  stray 
Across  my  desk.     And  I  am  wondering 

If  God,  who  lights  a  million  stars  each  night, 

Laughed  at  the  groping  words  I  tried  to  write ! 


104 


V.    MOON-GLOW 

I  wonder  if,  dim  centuries  ago, 

We  watched  the  moon  together,  on  some  night 
When  stars  hung  very  near,  and  softly  bright? 

I  wonder  if  my  tired  head  drooped  low 

Against  your  breast?    And  if  you  seemed  to  know 
(As  you  know  now)  the  dreams  that,  like  a  light, 
Shone  in  my  soul?    For,  dear,  it  seems  so  right — 

So  very  right  that  you  should  hold  me  so ! 

Here,  in  the  moonlight,  there  is  nothing  new, 
The  very  arms  that  crush  me  to  your  heart, 
Seem  almost  like  a  memory,  a  part 

Of  some  vague  yesterday  that  has  come  true — 
I  feel  tonight  as  if  I,  dear,  might  start 

A  journey  back,  across  the  years,  with  you! 


105 


FOKGIVEN 

You  left  me  when  the  weary  weight  of  sorrow 

Lay,  like  a  stone,  upon  my  bursting  heart; 
It  seemed  as  if  no  shimmering  tomorrow 

Could  dry  the  tears  that  you  had  caused  to  start. 
You  left  me,  never  telling  why  you  wandered — 

Without  a  word,  without  a  last  caress; 
Left  me  with  but  the  love  that  I  had  squandered, 

The  husks  of  love  and  a  vast  loneliness. 

And  yet  if  you  came  back  with  arms  stretched  toward 
me, 

Came  back  to-night,  with  carefree,  smiling  eyes, 
And  said :  "My  journeying  has  somehow  bored  me, 

And  love,  though  broken,  never,  never  dies!" 
I  would  forget  the  wounded  heart  you  gave  me, 

I  would  forget  the  bruises  on  my  soul. 
My  old-time  gods  would  rise  again  to  save  me, 

My  dreams  would  grow  supremely  new  and  whole. 
What  though  youth  lay,  a  tattered  garment,  o'er  you  ? 

Warm  words  would  leap  upon  my  lips,  long  dumb ; 
If  you  came  back,  with  arms  stretched  out  before 

you, 

And  told  me,  dear,  that  you  were  glad  to  come! 


106 


Sometimes  a  mist  of  sunlight  across  a  stranger's  hair, 
Sometimes  the  vague  expression  upon  a  stranger's 

face, 
Can  make  me  feel  your  presence — can  fill  a  lonely 

place 
With    dreams    of    life    half  realized.     Faint    music 

through  the  air 
Can  make  me  hear  your  foot-fall,  again,  upon  the 

stair — 
Sometimes  a  dancer  moving  with  quite  unconscious 

grace, 

Can  make  my  pulse  beat  faster;  and  for  a  breath- 
less space 

Can  make  me  turn,  expecting  to  find  you  standing 
there ! 

You  have  not  gone !     The  passing  of  every  empty 

day 
Has  only  brought  you  nearer.     Those  things  that 

were  a  part 

Of  all  we  planned  together  are  bits  of  you  that  stay, 
To  bruise  my  soul  as  sharply  as  any  flame-tipped 

darts 
Ah,  time  may  hold  its  healing — but  years  that  pas« 

away 

Cannot  erase  the  writing  you   traced   upon  my 
heart ! 


107 


AT  PARTING 

Love  of  my  life,  the  time  has  come  for  parting — 

For,  dearest,  I  must  leave  you  while  we  care ! 
Leave  you  while  tears  of  vain  regret  are  starting, 

While  I  can  look  at  you  and  find  you  fair. 
Could  we  endure  a  morn  of  bitter  waking, 

Could  we  accept  a  love  that  would  seem  less  ? 
Dear,  I  must  go  the  while  my  heart  is  breaking — 

Go  while  my  world  is  filled  with  happiness. 

Love  of  my  soul,  our  dream  has  been  so  flaming, 

That,  if  we  waited,  it  might  smoulder  down — 
Leaving  dead  ashes  only,  ashes  shaming 

All  that  was  vivid — ashes  dimly  brown. 
We  will  have  memories  as  sweet  as  flowers, 

We  who  have  left,  untouched,  Fate's  cup  of  woe; 
Kiss  me  once  more  to  bridge  life's  aching  hours — 

Love  of  my  heart — the  time  has  come  to  go ! 


108 


WHEN  I  AM  OLD— 

When  I  am  old  and  drenched  in  worlds  of  sadness, 

And  wear  a  lacy  cap  upon  my  head; 
When,  looking  past  the  future's  singing  gladness, 

I  linger,  wistful,  in  the  years  long  dead. 
When  I  am  old,  and  young  folk  all  about  me, 

Speak  softly  of  religion,  when  they  speak, 
When  parties  are  a  grand  success  without  me ; 

And  when  my  laugh  is  fluttering  and  weak — 

Will  I  then  be  content  to  raise  my  glances, 
Serenely  to  the  cloud-entangled  sky? 

And  will  I  be  content  to  watch  at  dances, 
Without  a  heartbreak,  as  the  hours  pass  by? 

Or  when  I  see  young  lovers  fingers  twine, 

Witt  I  remember,  dear,  your  lips  on  mine? 


\ 
109 


THE  EEFUGE 

We  hurried,  once,  down  the  purple  road, 

When  a  storm  hung  low  in  the  sky; 
And  we  gained  the  door  of  Love's  abode 

As  the  silver  rain  flashed  by. 
Our  steps  rang  out  as  we  crossed  the  sill, 

And  the  place  was  dimly  bright, 
And  even  our  hearts  seemed  strangely  still, 

While  our  searching  hands  clasped  tight. 

We  waited  there  while  the  wind  moaned  past 

And  the  thunder  crashed  in  the  air; 
And  the  door  of  Love's  abode  blew  fast, 

But  we  didn't  know — or  care ! 
For  we  heard  a  song  in  the  driving  rain, 

And  the  sky  seemed  warmly  gray; 
And  the  tempest  rang  with  a  mad  refrain, 

And  the  world  seemed  years  away. 


We  have  wondered  far  from   the  road  of  dreams, 

We  have  crept  from  the  house  of  love; 
And  the  scorching  sun  of  the  noonday  gleams 

From  the  pitiless  sky  above. 
But  once,  ah,  once — in  that  dusky  place, 

When  the  lightning  flashed  through  the  air, 
I  saw  its  flame  on  your  upturned  face, 

And  its  glow  on  your  vivid  hair. 

We  have  strayed  away — we  have  strayed  away — • 

For  the  world  is  all  too  wide.    .    .    . 
But  once  I  came  through  the  stormy  day, 

And  you  walked,  proud,  at  my  side. 
And,  oh,  for  the  feel  of  the  rain  again, 

And,  oh,  for  the  purple  road, 
And,  oh,  for  the  joy  and  the  pain  again, 

That  we  knew  in  Love's  abode! 


110 


TO  DEEAM  ALONE.  .  .  . 

How  long  the  days  may  seem,  how  long  each  night, 
(And  yet,  how  short  the  evenings  used  to  be!)  . 
How  strange  it  is  that  I  can  never  see, 

Warm  pictures  in  the  hearth  that  glows  so  bright. 

We  used  to  watch  the  laughing  firelight, 
And  build  dream  castles  in  it — Ah,  but  we 
Built  castles  everywhere!     And  now  the  sea 

Is  swept  between  us.     You  have  gone  to  fight. 

And  I — I  wait  and  try  to  dream  alone, 

And  try  to  smile,  to  dance  and  laugh  and  sing; 
And,  somehow,  cannot  think  of  anything, 

But  just  the  thrilling  roughness  of  your  tone, 

The  light  that  lights  your  eyes,  your  lips  that 
cling, 

And  love — the  flame  of  love  that  we  have  known ! 


Ill 


NOW  I  MAY  SING  OF  SADNESS.    .   .   . 

Knowing,  dear,  that  my  whole  heart  lies  at  rest 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  you,  I  may  sing  a  song 
Telling  the  tale  of  bitterness  and  wrong.  .  .  . 

Knowing,  dear,  that  my  head  lay  on  your  breast 

Only  last  night,  I  may  sing  of  dreams  that  died, 
And  hopes  that  never  were  born,  and  faith  be- 
trayed, 
Of  weary  feet  that  have  left  the  road  and  strayed 

Out  of  the  narrow  way,  to  pastures  wide. 

Dear,  when  my  songs  were  gay,  I  did  not  know 
Whether  you  eared.    And  so  I  had  to  sing 
Gladly,  to  mask  grim  fear — I  had  to  bring 

Sunlight  to  point  the  path  that  I  must  go ! 

Now  that  the  clouds  are  silver  sweet  above, 
I  may  sing  songs  of  sadness.    I  am  blessed 
Knowing,  dear,  that  my  whole  heart  lies  at  rest, 

Knowing,  dear,  that  I  have  your  love — your  love! 


112 


Knowing  that  you  have  walked  her  muddy  roads 

Wearily,  after  bitter  times  of  fighting; 
Knowing  that  you  have  carried  heavy  loads 

Over  her  hills — while  I,  at  home,  was  lighting 
Dim  yellow  candles  on  the  mantel  shelf.  .   .   . 
Knowing  you  suffered  agony  and  loss, 
Under  the  very  shadow  of  a  Cross — 
France  holds  a  bit  of  you — and  of  myself! 

113 


WHEN  WAR  CAME 

War  came,  one  day,  and  drew  us  close  together, 

Although  it  swept  us  many  miles  apart; 
The  love  that  lay  as  lightly  as  a  feather, 

Now  rests,  a  precious  weight,  upon  my  heart. 
And  all  the  dreams  I  dreamed  for  just  the  dreaming, 

Have  taken  on  a  meaning  that  is  new; 
And  somehow  all  the  lonely  world  is  seeming, 

To  cry  aloud  my  aching  need  of  you ! 

Because  you  were  so  much  a  part  of  living, 

Like  sunshine  and  the  freshness  of  the  air, 
The  priceless  gift  of  faith  that  you  were  giving 

Seemed  small  to  me.     Scarce  knowing  you  were 

there 
I  took  your  heart-strings  in  my  careless  fingers, 

And  played  a  song  as  light  as  summer  dew, 
And  yet,  today,  its  wistful  echo  lingers 

And  fills  an  empty  world  with  thoughts  of  you. 

I  did  not  think  that  I  would  ever  miss  you, 

I  did  not  dream  the  time  would  come  to  be 
When  I  would  long  to  touch  your  hand,  to  kiss  you — 

To  hear  your  voice  say  tender  words  to  me. 
I  did  not  know  that  I  would  wonder  whether 

My   head   would   rest,   once   more,    against   your 

heart.    .    .    . 
War  came,  my  dear,  and  drew  us  close  together, 

Although  it  swept  us  many  miles  apart! 


114 


WHEN  YOU  WENT  BY 

I  stood  in  the  rain  and  watched  you  pass, 

I  stood  in  the  blinding  rain.    .    .    . 

And  I  thought  of  a  fragrant  summer  night, 

When  the  room  was  glowing  with  candlelight, 

And  a  shower  beat  on  the  window  glass 

With  a  wonderful,  low  refrain. 

I  thought  of  your  arms  that  held  me  tight, 

And  your  eyes  that  were  near  and  warmly  bright; 

I  thought  of — all,  as  I  watched  you  pass, 

And  my  soul  was  wrung  with  pain. 

"Tramp,  tramp,  tramp!'*  rang  your  column's  tread. 
"Tramp,  tramp,  tramp !"  through  the  street. 
(Ah,  dear,  it  was  summer  once,  and  there 
Were  flower  scents  on  the  misty  air — 
Honeysuckle    and     mignonette,     poignantly,     sadly 

sweet!) 

"Tramp,  tramp,  tramp !"  rang  your  column's  tread, 
And  my  eyes  were  dim  as  I  bowed  my  head; 
And  my  heart  seemed  broken  and  old  and  dead, 
Under  your  marching  feet. 

I  stood  in  the  rain  and  watched  you  pass — 

There  in  the  autumn  rain.    .    .    . 

And  I  thought,  my  dear,  of  the  night  when  you 

Had  kissed  me  first.    (Ah,  your  eyes  were  blue, 

And  very  tender,  and  Heaven-true, 

There  in  the  candlelight!) 

I  thought  of  a  misty  summer  night, 

When  a  shower  fell  on  the  vivid  grass 

(There,  through  the  rain,  I  watched  you  pass!) 

I  thought  of  a  mystic  summer  night 

That  never  may  come  again. 

"Tramp,  tramp,  tramp!"  rang  your  column's  tread, 
"Tramp,  tramp,  tramp!"  in  the  street; 
And  I  tried  to  smile — with  a  lifted  head — 
But  my  heart  lay,  crushed,  at  your  feet! 

115 


IN  MEMORIAM 
To  an  American  Aviator 

He  went  to  battle  in  the  mist-hung  sky, 

Like  some  gold-hearted  bird  with  pinions  strong; 

He  went  with  courage,  with  a  snatch  of  song, 
In  all  his  splendid  youth !    And  God  on  high 
Looked  down  with  love  to  watch  him  dip  and  fly, 

Then  lifted  him  to  where  the  brave  belong. 

He  went  to  right  a  bleeding  nation's  wrong, 
And  proved  that  he  was  not  afraid  to  die ! 

So  we,  who  stare  across  the  lonely  hours, 
Must  only  think  of  that  great  gift  he  gave ; 
Must  think  of  other  lives  that  his  will  save ; 
And  know  that,  when  the  tender,  healing  showers 
Have  fallen  in  a  stranger-land,  the  flowers 

Will  bloom,  like  prayers,  upon  a  hero's  grave! 


116 


A  PEASANT  GIRL  SINGS 

Somewhere,  Out  There,  he  is — just  a  boy,  that's  all — 
(Laughter    sparkled    in    his    eyes — he    was    always 

singing!) 
'   Just  a  boy  who  answered  when  he  heard  his  country's 

call; 

j(  Somewhere,  Out  There,  he  is — how  my  thoughts  go 
winging—) 

Ready  to  do  or  dare, 
(Like  sunlight  was  his  hair,) 
Just  a  boy,  a  laughing  boy, 

Somewhere,  Out  There. 

Idle  my  wheel,  to-day,  hushed  is  it's  spinning — 
(Ah,  but  his  eyes  were  blue — blue  as  the  sea — ) 
Somewhere,  Out  There,  he  is  .    .   .  Losing — or  win- 
ning! 

(Boy  with  the  carefree  heart,  come  back  to  me!) 
Blood  red  the  cannon's  flare, 
(God,  can  you  hear  my  prayef  ?) 
Keep  him,  my  boy,  from  harm — 

Somewhere,  Out  There. 


117 


TOGETHER 

They  lay  together  in  the  sun  and  waited  for  the  end; 
Side  by  side,  together,  bearded  foe  and  friend; 
Jean  from  the  pleasant  fields  of  singing,  Southern 

France, 

Jean  from  the  poppy  fields  sighing  with  romance; 
Fritz  from  a  Fatherland  he  blindly  loved  and  served, 
Fritz  whose  soft-nosed  bullets  had  never  flinched  nor 

swerved; 
And  Peter,  whose  tired  eyes  were  wide  and  deep  and 

brown, 
Peter  from  Delancey  Street,  in  New  York  town. 

They  didn't  speak,  these  three, 

They  didn't  know  each  other's  tongue; 

And,  then, 

When  men 

Whose  songs  are  nearly  sung 

Are  lying  side  by  side, 

Their  breathing  not  so    ...    free, 

The  gulf  is  rather  wide. 

In  the  sun  they  lay  there; 
And  Fritz's  hair 
Was  very  bright. 
He  was  a  foe 
To  kill  on  sight — 
And  yet  the  light 
Upon  his  hair  was  so, 
So  very  fair.    .    .    . 


118 


Jean  found  himself  remembering  her  hair; 

Of  palest  gold  it  was,  a  magic  snare 

To  net  men's  soul  in !     She  had  bade  him  go, 

Sobbing,  "Je  t'aime" — which  means,  "I  love  you  so !" 

Her  hair — her  hands — her  lips, 

Red  as  a  sunset  cloud  when  daytime  slips 

Into  the  night.     No,  redder! 

Like  a  flower 

That  blooms  upon  the  earth  for  just  an  hour ; 
A  poppy  flower,  fragile,  soft.    .    .    .    Her  lips 
Eed  as  the  heart-blood  of  a  man,  that  drips 
Into  eternity.    .    .    . 

Jean  sighed, 

And  died. 

Perhaps  her  lips  were  very  near — who  knows? 

When  eyes  must  close 

Against  the  sun,  and  life,  who  cares? 

One  only  dares 

To  wonder! 

Fritz  lay  still. 

He  felt  the  strength,  the  faith,  the  stubborn  will, 

Drop  from  him  like  worn  garments,  till  he  lay 

Half-frightened  in  the  burning  light  of  day. 

He  had  killed  many,  yes.    .    .    . 

From  under 

His  tunic,  gropingly,  he  drew  a  cross; 

He  wondered  would  it  make,  for  her,  the  loss 

A  little  less? 

Ah,  to  press 

His  bearded  lips  once  more  upon  her  cheek, 

To  hear  her  speak.    .    .    . 


119 


Yes,  he  had  killed,  and  killed — 

And  he  had  thrilled 

To  do  it.    ... 

But  just  to  sit 

Beside  her,  in  the  shade, 

That  had  been  paradise ! 

Her  soft  arms  laid 

About  his  throat.    .    .    . 

They  strangled  him — 

His  eyes  grew  dim.    .    .    . 

He  choked — once    .    .    .    twice.    .    .    . 

Peter  from  Delancey  Street,  laughed  with  white- 
lipped  pluck. 

"Dyin'  side  o'  him!"  he  coughed.  "Ain't  it  rotten 
luck! 

"Poor  guy,  they  got  him,  though — got  him  same  as 
me.  .  .  ." 

Peter,  from  Delancey  Street,  stopped  talking  sud- 
denly. 

He  saw — 

A  candy  store, 

On  the  busy,  smelly  corner  of  a  crowded  city 

slum; 

He  heard  the  hum 
Of  traffic  in  the  street, 
The  sound  of  feet 
Upon  the  pavement;  and  he  saw, 
Behind  the  counter  there, 
The  Girl.    She  wore 
Her  hair 

Plastered  tight  to  her  little  shell-like  ears. 
He  felt  her  tears 
Upon  his  face 

The  night  he  told  her  that  he'd  left  his  place, 
His  steady  paying  job,  to  go  and  fight. 


120 


"Good  night!" 
HeM  said  to  her. 
"Somebody's  gotta  go! 
Yerself,  you  know, 
We  gotta  stir 

T'lick  them  fellers  Over  There  1" 
Her  slicked-back  hair 

Had  roughened  up  against  his  khaki  sleeve, 
And  she  had  cried: 
"Dear,  must  you  leave?" 
And  he  had  dried 

Her   eyes,   and   smudged    the    powder    on    her 
nose.    .    .    . 

"Here  goes!" 

Said  Peter  of  Delancey  Street. 

He  saw 

A  candy  store — 

A  city  slum,  a  girl  with  plastered  hair, 

Who  waited  there.    .    .    . 

They  lay  together  in  the  sun — bravely  id  the  end, 
Side  by  side,  together,  bearded  foe  and  friend. 
Jean  from  the  poppy  fields,  sighing  with  romance, 
Jean  from   the   laughter-lilting   fields   of  Southern 

France; 

Fritz  from  a  Fatherland  he  blindly  loved  and  served, 
Fritz,   whose   faith,   although    betrayed,    had   never 

flinched  or  swerved; 
And  Peter,  whose  tired  eyes  were  questioning  and 

brown, 
Peter,  from  Delancey  Street,  in  New  York  town. 


121 


JIM-DOG 

He  wasn't,  well,  a  fancy  kind  o'  dog — 

Not  Jim ! 

But,  oh,  I  sorter  couldn't  seem  ter  help 

A-lovin'  him. 

He  always  seemed  ter  understand. 

He'd  rub  his  nose  against  my  hand 

If  I  was  feelin'  blue  or  sad. 

Or  if  my  thoughts  was  pretty  bad; 

An'  how  he'd  bark  an'  frisk  an'  play 

When  I  was  gay! 

A  soldier's  dog  don't  have  much  time  ter  whine 

Like  little  pets  a-howlin'  at  th'  moon. 

A  soldier's  dog  is  bound  ter  learn,  right  soon, 

That  war  is  war,  an'  what  a  steady  line 

Of  men  in  khaki  means. 

(What,  dogs  don't  know  ? 
You  bet  they  do !    Jim-dog,  he  had  ter  go 
Along  th'  trenches  oftentimes  at  night; 
He  seemed  ter  sense  it  when  there  was  a  fight 
A-brewin'.     Oh,  I  guess  he  knew,  all  right!) 
I  was  a  soldier,  an'  Jim-dog  was  mine. 

Ah,  what's  the  use? 

There  never  was  another  dog  like  him. 

Why,  on  th'  march  I'd  pause  an'  call — "Hey,  Jim !" 

An'  he'd  be  there,  his  head  tipped  on  one  side, 

A-lookin'  up  at  me  with  love  an'  pride, 

His  tail  a-waggin',  an'  his  ears  raised  high.    .    .    . 

I  wonder  why  my  Jim-dog  had  ter  die  ? 

He  was  a  friend  ter  folks ;  he  didn't  bite ; 

He  never  snapped  at  no  one  in  th'  night; 

He  didn't  hate  a  soul ;  an*  he  was  game ! 

An'  yet    ...    a  spark  o'  light,  a  dartin'  flame 

Across  th'  dark,  a  sneaky  bit  o'  lead, 

An'  he  was    .        .    dead  ! 


122 


They  say  there  ain't  no  heaven-land  for  him, 

'Cause  dogs  is  dogs,  an'  haven't  any  right; 

But  let  me  tell  yer  this;  without  my  Jim 

Th'  very  shinin'  streets  would  seem  less  bright! 

An'  somehow  I'm  a-thinkin'  that  if  he 

Could  come  at  that  last  stirrin'  bugle  call 

Up  to  th'  gates  o'  gold  aside  of  me, 

Where  God  stands  smilin'  welcome  to  us  all, 

An'  I   said,   "Father,   here's  my   dog    .    .    .    here's 

Jim," 
They'd  find  some  corner,  touched  with  love,  fer  him ! 


123 


SIX  SONNETS 
I.     SOMEHOW 

Somehow  I  never  thought  that  you  would -go, 

Not  even  when  red  war  swept  through  the  land — 
I  somehow  thought,  because  I  loved  you  so, 

That  you  would  stay.    I  did  not  understand 
That  something  stronger  than  my  love  could  come, 

To  draw  you,  half -reluctant,  from  my  heart; 
I  never  thought  the  call  of  fife  and  drum 

W.ould  rend  our  cloak  of  happiness  apart! 

And  yet,  you  went    .    .    .    And  I — I  did  not  weep — 
I  smiled,  instead,  and  brushed  the  tears  aside. 

And  yet,  when  night-time  comes,  I  cannot  sleep 
But  silent  lie,  while  longing  fights  with  pride — • 

You  are  my  man,  the  foe  you  fight  my  foe. 
And  yet — /  never  thought  that  you  would  go! 


124 


II.    I  WONDER 

/ 

I  wonder  if  you  dream,  across  the  night, 

When  watchfires  cut  the  vivid  dark  in  twain, 
Of  long  dim  rooms,  and  yellow  candlelight, 

And  gardens  drenched  in  vaguely  perfumed  rain? 
I  wonder  if  you  think,  when  shot  and  shell 

And  molten  fire  are  singing  songs  of  hate, 
Of  that  last  throbbing  moment  of  farewell 

When,  in  your  arms,  I  promised  you  to  wait! 

I  wonder,  should  grim  death  reach  out  his  hand, 
And  speak,  above  the  strife,  of  peace  and  rest; 

If  you,  alone  in  that  dark  stranger  land, 

Would  feel  again  my  head  upon  your  breast? 

And  if,  as  light  and  love  and  living  slips, 

Your  prayer  would  be  my  kiss  upon  your  lips.    .    .    . 


125 


III.     SOME  DAY 

Some  day  when  on  exultant  feet  you  come 

Back  through  the  streets  that  echo  at  your  tread — 
My  soul  will  thrill  to  hear  the  throbbing  drum, 

And  yet,  perhaps,  I'll  sit  with  drooping  head, 
Not  caring,  quite,  to  meet  your  steady  gaze, 

Not  daring,  quite,  to  look  into  your  eyes; 
Afraid  because  a  weary  stretch  of  days, 

Each  one  a  million  years,  between  us  lies. 

My  heart — my  heart  is  ever  yours  to  hold, 
And  yet,  while  I  have  waited  here  for  you, 

You  have  seen  faith  betrayed,  and  brave  youth  sold, 
You  have  seen  meadows  drenched  in  bloody  dew — 

It  may  have  changed  you,  and  your  eyes  may  be 

A  little  harder  when  they  look  at  me ! 


126 


IV.    DREAM 

Sometimes  I  dream  that  you  are  back  with  me, 

And  that  with  hands  together  clasped  we  go 
Like  little  children,  young  and  glad  and  free, 

A-down  a  magic  road  we  used  to  know. 
Sometimes  I  dream  your  eyes  upon  my  face, 

And  feel  your  fingers  softly  touch  my  hair.    .    .    «, 
And  when  I  wake  from  dreaming  all  the  place, 

Seems  lonelier  because  you  are  not  there. 

What  is  a  dream  ?    Not  very  much,  they  say, 
An  idle  vision  made  in  castled  Spain — 

"Well,  maybe  they  are  right.    .    .    .    And  yet,  today, 
When  all  the  warring  world  was  swept  with  pain, 

The  suffering  and  sorrow  ceased  to  be, 

Because  I  dreamed  that  you  were  back  with  me ! 


127 


V.    UNDERSTANDING 

/ 

Now,  when  I  stand  in  some  great  crowded  place, 
I  see  the  souls  of  other  women  stare 
Out  of  their  eyes — And  I  can  glimpse  the  care 

And  worry  that  has  banished  light  and  grace 

From  every  life.    Upon  each  woman-face 
I  see  the  mark  of  tears,  the  hint  of  prayer 
That,  one  short  year  ago,  had  not  been  there — 

I  see  what  time  will  never  quite  erase ! 

Before  you  left,  I  did  not  notice  eyes — 

Because  I  knew  that  I  might  touch  your  hand, 
I  did  not  dream  the  dread  that  swept  our  land.    . 

Ah,  dear,  the  months  have  made  me  very  wise ! 
Now,  one  with  everything,  I  understand, 

And  heart  meets  heart  and  I  can  sympathize. 


128 


VI.    THE  WAKING 

Now  war  is  over  and  a  world  set  free, 

And  youth  returns,  triumphant,  to  our  land — 
And  dear-heart,  you'll  be  coming  back  to  me, 

With  eager  lips,  and  tender  outstretched  hand ! 
You  will  be  coming  as  you  came  of  old, 

At  evening  time,  with  laughter  lilting  gay; 
Glad  of  the  little  things  that  life  may  hold — 

And  I  will  meet  you  in  the  self  same  way.    .   .   . 

Yes,  in  the  shadows  by  my  oaken  coor, 
I  will  be  waiting  as  I  used  to  wait — 

And  I  will  feel  that  you  are  come,  before 
I  hear  the  clicking  of  the  garden  gate. 

And,  in  the  darkness  there,  my  pulse  will  leap, 

Reviving  dreams  that  long  have  lain  asleep ! 


129 


AFTER  PEACE 

"I  wonder  what  they're  doin'  home  tonight?" 

Jim  said — 

We  sat  there,  in  the  yeller  firelight, 

There,  in  a  house  in  France — 

Some  of  us,  maybe  thinkin'  of  romance — 

Some  of  us  missin'  buddies  who  was  dead — 

And  some  just  dreamin' 

Sorter  hardly  seemin' 

Ter  make  the'  dream  come  clear. 

An'  then — Jim  spoke — 

"I  wonder  what  they're  doin'  home  ternight?" 

Says  Jim — 

An'  some  of  us  felt,  well — as  if  we'd  like 

Ter  smother  him! 

An'  some  of  us  tried  hard-like  not  ter  choke, 

Th'  smoke 

Was  pretty  thick  an'  black! 

A-thinkin'  back, 

Across  th'  ocean  I  could  sort  of  see 

A  little  house  that  means  just  all  ter  me 

And,  though  nobody  said  a  word  I  knew 

Their  thoughts  was  goin'  on  th'  self-same  track — 

Thoughts  do 

Out  here,  in  France. 

Home — Home — No  wonder  that  we  all  was  still — 

For  one  of  us  was  thinkin'  of  a  hill, 

With  pine  trees  on  it  black  against  th'  moon — 

And  one  of  us  was  dreaming  of  a  town, 

All  drab  an'  brown — 

An'  one  of  us  was  lookin' — far  an'  high 

Ter  some  one  who  had  gone  back  home  too  soon 

To  that  real  home  that  is  beyond  the  sky. 


130 


Nobody  of  us  spoke  fer  quite  a  while — 

We  didn't  smile — 

We  just  sat  still  an'  wondered  when  there'd  be 

An  order  for  ter  send  us  home — 

Back  'crost  the  sea. 

Th'  war  was  won — 

An*  we  was  done! 

We  wanted  faces  that  we  loved  an'  knew, 

An*  voices  too — 

We  sat  an'  watched  th'  dancin'  fire  fling 

Its  shadders  on  th'  floor — 

Bright  shapes,  an'  dim. 

An'  then  Jim  coughed  as  if  his  throat  was  sore, 

An'— "Say— let's  sing !" 

Says  Jim. 


131 


FKOM  THE  DECK  OF  A  TRANSPORT 
(A  Returning  Soldier  Speaks] 

I  am  coming  back  with  a  singing  soul  through  the 

surge  of  the  splendid  sea, 
Coming  back  to  the  larftl  called  home,  and  the  love 

that  used  to  be — 
I  am  coming  back  through  a  flash  of  spray,  through 

a  conquered  tempest's  hum, 
I  am  coming  back,  I  am  coming  back.    .    .    .    But, 

God,  do  I  want  to  come? 

I  have  heard  the  shriek  of  the  great  shells  speak  to 

the  dawn  of  a  flaming  day; 
And  a  growling  gun  when  the  fight  was  won,  and  the 

twilight  flickered  gray, 
I  have  seen  men  die  with  their  chins  raised  high,  and 

a  curse  that  was  half  a  prayer — 
I  have  fought  alone  when  a  comrade's  groan  was 

tense  on  the  blinding  air. 

I  have  tramped  a  road  when  a  burning  load  was 

strapped  to  my  aching  back, 
Through  miles  of  mud  that  was  streaked  with  blood, 

when  my  closing  eyes  turned  back — 
I  have  cried  aloud  to  a  heedless  crowd  of  a  God  that 

they  could  not  know, 
And  have  knelt  at  night  when  the  way  was  bright 

with  a  rocket's  sullen  glow. 

I  am  going  home  through  the  whirling  foam — home 
to  her  arms  stretched  wide — 

I  am  going  back  to  the  beaten  track  and  the  sheltered 
fireside, 

With  gasping  breath  I  have  sneered  at  death,  and 
have  mocked  at  a  shell's  swift  whirr, 

And  safe  again,  through  the  years  of  pain,  I  am  go- 
ing back — to  her! 

132 


I  am  coming  back  with  a  singing  soul  through  the 

surge  of  the  splendid  sea, 
Coming  back — but  my  singing  soul  will  never  be 

quite  free — 
For  I  have  killed,  and  my  heart  has  thrilled  to  the 

call  of  the  battle  hum.    .    .    . 
I  am  coming  back  to  the  used-to-be — But,  God,  do  I 

want  to  come? 


133 


TIM— MY  BUNKIE 

I  met  Tim  th'  other  day 

On  Broadway ; 

Hadn't  seen  him  since  he  fell, 

Covered  like  with  streaks  of  blood, 

In  th'  Argonne's  battle  hell. 

Tim  an*  me  was  bunkies;  we 

Marched  together 

Through  th'  water  an'  th'  slime — 

Sunny  France,  hey?    We  seen  weather 

That  we  hadn't  dreamed  could  be 

Anywhere  or  any  time. 

We  had  fought — well,  hand  to  hand, 

Over  miles  o'  broken  land, 

Through  th'  Yesle,  an'  by  th'  Aisne, 

When  th'  shrapnel  fell  like  rain — 

Tim  an'  me  was  bunkies — see? 

Smilin'  sort  o'  cuss  was  Tim; 
Never  seen  th'  beat  o'  him ! 
He  could  whistle  when  a  pack 
Was  like  lead  upon  his  back; 
He  could  smile  with  blistered  feet; 
Never  swore  at  monkey  meat, 
Or  at  cooties,  or  th'  drill; 
Always  laughin' — never  still — 
That  was  Tim ! 

Say,  th'  fellers  loved  that  boy ! 
Chaplain  said  that  he  "was  joy 
All  incarnate — "  Sounds  all  right, 
But  th'  men  said  he  was  white, 
That  meant  most  to  us,  I'd  say! 
Why,  we  never  seen  th'  day 
When  we  wouldn't  help  a  guy. 
If  he  had  a  franc  he'd  buy 
Chocolate  or  chow  for  us, 
Gen'rus  little  smilin'  cuss — 
That  was  Tim! 

134 


When  they  got  him,  I  can  see 
Even  now,  th'  way  he  slipped 
To  th'  ground  beside  o'  me. 
Eed  blood  dripped 
From  his  tunic  an*  his  chin, 
But  he  choked  out,  "Fellers,  win! 
"Me,  I  don't  much  matter,  grin!" 

Sure  we  had  ter  leave  him  lay; 

War  is  always  that-a-way; 

An'  we  thought  o'course  he'd  die. 

Maybe  that's  the  reason  why 

We  could  fight  th'  way  we  did; 

Why  we  found  th'  guns  they  hid; 

Why  we  broke  their  line  in  two, 

Whistlin'  a  tune  he  knew 

All  th'  time  we  pushed  'em  back, 

Crowdin'  on  'em  whack  f  er  whack ! 

I  seen  Tim  th'  other  day 

On  Broadway; 

He  had  lef  one  arm  in  France, 

But  his  eyes  was  all  a-dance 

When  he  seen  me  face  t'  face. 

"Say,"  he  shouts,  "ain't  this  some  place? 

Ain't  it  great  th'  war  is  through? 

Glad  I  seen  it,  though ;  ain't  you  ?" 

Smilin*  sort  o'  little  cuss, 

Meetin'  me  without  a  fuss — 

Tim,  my  bunkie,  livin' !    .    .    .    Tim ! 

That's  him ! 


135 


A  PRAYER  FOR  OUR  BOYS  RETURNING 

God,  bring  them  back  just  as  they  went  away; 

A  little  wiser,  maybe,  but  unchanged 
In  all  the  vital  things — let  them  today 

Take  up  the  lives  that  war  has  disarranged. 
Let  them  renew  the  youth  they  laid  aside 

To  fight  their  battles  in  the  world  of  men, 
God,  bring  to  life  their  little  dreams  that  died, 

And  build  their  altars  new  again,  and  then — • 

Give  them  the  vivid  youth  that  they  have  sought  for 

Through  bloody  mists  on  bloody  fields  of  strife; 
Show  them  the  gallant  truth  that  they  have  fought 

for; 

Show  them,  anew,  the  better  things  of  life. 
God  of  the  hosts,  blot  out  the  months  of  pain — 
And  let  them  have  their  boyhood  back  again. 

AMEN. 


136 


PARIS 
I.    AFTEK  PEACE 

The  city  thrills  once  more  to  joyous  singing; 

Glad  laughter  sounds  again  upon  the  street, 

And  music  throbs  again,  until  young  feet 
Trip  merrily  upon  their  way;  the  ringing 
Of  hour  chimes  are  gallant  voices,  flinging 

Their  challenges  through  each  crowded  space,  to 
greet 

Old  friends  who  linger  where  they  used  to  meet 
With  other  friends  long  gone.    .    .    .    The  summer, 
bringing 

The  light  of  peace,  has  seemed  to  fill  the  city, 
With  happiness  that  echoes  far  and  wide 
In  sounds  of  joy ;  there  seems  no  room  for  sorrow — 
Yet,  like  a  minor  chord  submersed  in  pity, 
There  steals  above  the  music  of  tomorrow, 
The  weary  footsteps  of  the  ones  who  died. 


137 


II.     THE  HUE  DE  LA  PAIX — (A  STREET  OF  JEWELS) 

The  windows  glow  with  many  jewels,  with  rubies 

fire-entangled, 
And  glowing  bits  of  emerald,  and  diamonds  like 

the  dew — 
(But,  /Paris,  can  you  quite  forget  the  bodies  lying 

mangled 

Beneath  the  snow  on  Flanders  fields — your  lost 
who  call  to  you?). 

The  windows  of  each  little  shop  are  gay  with  gem- 
like  laughter, 
"With  rings  to  fit  milady's  hand,  and  drops  to  deck 

her  ear; 
(But,  Paris  can  you  quite  forget  Verdun,  and  Ypres, 

and — after  ? 

And,  far  beneath  the  sounds  of  mirth,  one  won- 
ders what  you  hear.) 

The  windows   glow  with   countless  jewels,  the  shop- 
girls stop  to  wonder, 
The  little  shopgirls  who  are  still,  so  many,  dressed 

in  black — 
(But,  oh,  the  saddened  hearts  of  them  no  doubt  are 

lying  under 

Some  sandy  stretch  along  the  Marne,  where  grim 
defeat  turned  back  ! ) 

The  windows  gleam  enticingly,  and  eyes  light  up  to 

see  them, 
For  Paris   thrills   to  loveliness,   as   Paris   always 

thrilled— 
(Oh,  God  of  beauty,  touch  the  lives  that  war  has 

crushed,  and  free  them 

From  broken  dreams,  an  empty  faith,  and  hopes 
forever  stilled!) 


138 


III.    THE  FLOWER  WAGONS 

Violets  and  mignonette,  crowded  close  together, 

Crowded  close  together  on  the  corner  of  each  street, 
Through  the  chilling  dampness  of  the  misty  weather, 
Violets  and  mignonette — ah,  so  close  together — 
Making  all  the  Paris  day  colorful  and  sweet ! 

Roses  faintly  touched  with  pink;  see,  a  soldier 
lingers 

Close  beside  the  flower-stand,  dreaming  of  the  day 
When  she  broke  a  single  bud  with  her  slender  fingers, 
Pressed  it  to  her  wistful  mouth — see,  a  soldier  lingers 

Dreaming  of  a  summertime  very  far  away. 

Lilacs  white  and  pure  and  new,  fragrant  as  the 
morning — 

One  pale  widow,  passing  by,  pauses  for  a  space, 
Thinking  of  the  lilac  tree  that  once  grew,  adorning 
All  a  little  cottage  home,  in  life's  fragrant  morning; 

Of  a  lilac  tree  that  grew  in  a  garden  place. 

Pansies  for  a  thought  of  love,  lilies  for  love's  sorrow, 
Bay  leaves  green  as  hopes  that  live,  berries  red 

and  brown ; 

Flowers  vivid  for  a  day,  gone  upon  the  morrow, 
Flowers  that  are  sweet  as  faith,  that  are   sad   as 

sorrow — 
Flowers  for  the  weary  souls  of  a  weary  town. 

Violets  and  mignonette,  crowded  close  together, 
Crowded   close   together   on   the   corner   of   each 

street ; 
Singing    of    the    summertime,    through    the    misty 

weather, 

Violets  and  mignonette — ah,  so  close  together — 
Making  all  the  Paris  day  colorful  and  sweet! 


139 


IV.     ACROSS  THE  YEARS 

(Marie  Antoinette  walked  down  the  steps  of  a  certain 
Chapel  on  her  way  to  the  guillotine.) 

They  say  a  queen  once  walked  along  the  marble  steps 

with  grace, 
To  meet  grim  death  by  guillotine — a  smile  was  on 

her  face, 
A  smile  of  scorn  that  lifted  her  above  the  howling 

crowd, 

A  smile  that  mocked  at  pallid  fear — a  smile  serene 
xand  proud. 

Yes,    it   was    Marie    Antoinette — she    walked    with 

steady  tread, 
She  sauntered  down  the  marble  steps  with  proudly 

lifted  head; 
And  there  were  those  among  the  crowd  who  watched 

with  indrawn  breath, 
To  see  a  queen  walk  out  with  smiles  to  keep  a  tryst 

with  death ! 

I  stood  beside  those  marble  steps  just  yesterday,  and 

saw, 
A  bride  upon  a  soldier's  arm — a  poilu  brave  who 

wore 
A  Croix  de  Guerre  upon  his  breast — and  oh,  they 

smiled  above 
The  busy  throng  that  hurried  by,  unconscious  of  their 

love. 

And  though,  across  the  mist  of  years,  I  glimpsed  a 

fair  queen's  face, 
A  face  that  smiled,  but  scornfully,  above  her  land's 

disgrace — 
I  will  remember,  on  those  steps,  the  little  new-made 

wife, 
Who  came,  her  eyes  all  filled  with  trust,  to  keep 

her  tryst  with  life. 

140 


V.    SUNLIGHT 

The  sun  shines  over  Paris  fitfully, 

As  if  it  really  were  afraid  to  shine; 

And  clouds  of  gray  mist  curl  and  twist  and  twine 
Across  the  sky.    As  far  as  one  can  see 
The  streets  are  wet  with  rain,  and  suddenly 

New  rain  falls  in  a  straight,  relentless  line — 

And  silver  drops,  like  needles,  slim  and  fine, 
Drip  from  the  branches  of  each  gaunt-limbed  tree. 

Ah,  Paris,  can  the  very  wistful  sky 

Look  down  into  the  center  of  your  heart, 

That  has  been  bruised  by  war,  and  torn  apart — 

The  once  glad  heart  that  has  been  taught  to  sigh  ? 

The  sun  is  like  your  smile  that  flutters  by 

Like  some  lost  dream,  before  the  tear-drops  start. 


141 


VI.     THE  LATIN  QUARTER — AFTER 

They   were   the    brave    ones,   the    gallant   ones,    the 

laughing  ones, 

Who  were  the  very  first  to  go — to  heed  their  coun- 
try's call; 
They  were  the  joyous  ones,  the  carefree  .ones,   the 

chaffing  ones, 

Who  were  the  first  to  meet  the  foe,  who  were  the 
first  to  fall. 

Artists  and  poets,  they;  the  talented  and  youthful 

ones — 
All  the  world  before  their  feet,  their  feet  that  loved 

to  stray; 
We  have  heard  about  their  lives;  stories  crude,  and 

truthful  ones 
Of  the  carefree  lives  they  lived,  in  the  yesterday. 

Ah,  the  Latin  Quarter  now;  boarded  up,  the  most 

of  it, 

Studios  are  bare,  this  year,  and  little  models  sigh, 
For  the  ones  who  died  for  France,  died  and  are  the 

boast  of  it, 

Died  as  they  had  always  lived,  with  their  heads 
held  high ! 

But  a  spark  of  it  remains,  in  forgotten  places, 
For  I  saw  a  blinded  boy  strumming  a  guitar, 

Playing  with  his   face   a-smile,   with   the   arts   and 

graces 
Of  a  troubadour  of  old.     He  had  wandered  far. 


142 


Through  the  flaming  hell  of  war — wandered  far  and 

home  again, 
To  the  corner  that  he  loved  when  his  eyes  could 

see; 
And  he  played  a  jolly  tune,  he  who  may  not  roam 

again, 
Played  it  on  an  old  guitar — played  it  smilingly. 

And  I  saw  another  sit  at  a  tiny  table, 

In  a  dingy  eating  house;  he   had  laughed   and 

drawn 

Sketches  on  the  ragged  cloth,  boasting  he  was  able 
Still  to  draw  as  well  as  most — with  two  fingers 
gone.    .    .    . 


143 


VII.    NOTRE  DAME 

Through  colored  glass,  on  burnished  walls, 
Soft  as  a  psalm,  the  sunlight  falls; 
And,  in  the  corners,  cool  and  dim, 
Its  glow  is  like  a  vesper  hymn. 
And,  arch  by  arch,  the  ceilings  high 
Eise  like  a  hand  stretched  toward  the  sky 
To  touch  God's  hand.     On  every  side 
Is  misty  silence;  and  the  wide 
Untroubled  spaces  seem  to  tell 
That  Peace  is  come — and  all  is  well! 

A  slender  woman  kneels  in  prayer; 

The  sunlight  slants  across  her  hair; 

A  pallid  child  in  rusty  black 

Stands  in  the  doorway,  looking  back.    .    .   . 

A  poilu  gropes  (his  eyes  are  wide) 

Along  the  altar  rail.     The  tide 

Of  war  has  cast  him  brokenly 

Upon  the  shore  of  life.     I  see 

A  girl  in  costly  furs,  who  cries 

Against  her  muff ;  I  see  her  rise 

And  hurry  out.     Two  tourists  pause 

Beside  the  grated  chancel  doors, 

To  wonder  and  to  speculate ; 

To  stoop  and  read  a  carven  date. 


144 


In  uniform  the  nations  come; 

Their  voices  are  a  steady  hum 

Until  they  feel  some  subtle  thrill 

That  makes  them  falter,  holds  them  still — 

Bronzed  boys,  who  shrugged  and  laughed  at  death, 

They  stand  today  with  indrawn  breath, 

Half  mystified. 

The  colors  steal 
Into  my  heart,  and  I  can  feel 
The  rapture  that  the  artists  knew 
Who,  centuries  before  me,  drew 
Their  very  souls  into  the  glass 

Of  every  window Hours  pass 

Like  beads  of  amber  that  are  strung 
Upon  a  rainbow,  frail  and  young. 

Through  mellow  glass,  on  hallowed  walls, 
The  twilight,  like  faint  music,  falls; 
And  in  each  corner,  cool  and  dim, 
The  music  is  a  splendid  hymn. 
And,  arch  on  arch,  the  ceilings  high 
Seem  like  a  hand  stretched  toward  the  sky 
To  touch  a  Hand  that  clasped  a  Cross — 
For  France,  new-risen  from  the  loss, 
And  pain  and  fear  of  battle-hell, 
Knows  Peace,  at  least,  and  all  is  well! 


145 


VIII.     SUNDAY  MOKNINQ 

The  streets  are  silent,  and  the  church  bells  ring 

Across  the  city  like  the  silver  chime 
Of  some  forgotten  memory.    They  bring 

The  phantom  of  another,  sweeter  time, 
When  war  was  all  undreamed.     They  seem  to  say, 

"Come  back,  come  back,  across  the  years  of  strife 
"To  One  who  reaches  out  a  Hand  today, 

"A  Hand  that  brings  your  dead  again  to  life !" 

A  little  white-haired  woman  hurries  past, 
A  tiny  prayer-book  in  one  wrinkled  hand; 

Her  eyes  are  calm,  as  one  who  knows  at  last 
What  only  age  may  really  understand; 

That,  as  a  rainbow  creeps  across  the  rain, 

The  God  of  Paris  smiles  above  its  pain! 


14G 


SONGS  FROM  FRANCE 

SCAES 

Summer  sweeps,  like  sad  laughter,  over  France, 

Touching  the  fields  with  flower-tinted  mirth; 

Bringing  its  wistful  gladness  to  an  earth 
That  has  been  stabbed  with  sorrow's  bitter  lance; 
Bringing  again  the  hint  of  old  romance, 

Bringing  again  the  magic  of  re-birth ; 

Paying  again  the  price  that  youth  was  worth — 
Over  dim  wayside  mounds  the  grasses  dance  I 

Where  there  were  shell  holes   summer  sends,  un- 
heeding, 

Blossoms  to  deck  the  broken  country  side; 
Where,  in  another  season,  heroes,  bleeding, 

Fell  for  the  cause  of  righteousness,  and  died, 
Green  creeper  twines  its  vivid  arms,  half-pleading, 

But  there  are  scars  that  summer  cannot  hide ! 


147 


FROM  PARIS  TO  CHATEAU  THIERRY 

The  road  winds  out  its  weary  way, 
Where  fields  are  torn  with  sorrow; 

It  is  a  road  of  yesterday, 

That  dreams  no  fair  tomorrow. 

It  is  silent,  saddened  road, 

A  lonely  road  to  follow; 
For  in  its  dust  red  rivers  flowed, 

And  now,  from  every  hollow, 
The  crows  rise  up  in  sullen  flight 

The  crows  that,  blackly  flying 
Against  the  skyline,  speak  of  night, 

And  bitterness,  and  dying. 

It  is  a  road  that  creeps  around 

Farmhouses  that  lie  broken; 
That  pauses  at  each  shallow  mound, 

At  every  blood-stained  token. 
A  helmet  by  the  way  one  sees ; 

A  pistol,  bent  and  rusty; 
And  hung  between  two  shattered  trees, 

A  coat  mildewed  and  musty. 
It  is  a  sad,  forgotten  road, 

But  oh,  it  tells  the  story 
Of  youth  that  bore  another's  load 

Without  a  thought  of  glory ! 
For  every  tattered  homestead  cries 

Of  vengeance  that  descended; 
And  memory  that  never  dies, 

From  hearts  that  stay  unmended! 

The  road  winds  out  its  weary  way, 

A  lonely  way  to  follow; 
And  crows  rise  black  against  the  day 

From  every  tree  and  hollow. 


148 


A  RUINED  CHURCH 

They  could  not  take  the  living  God  away, 
Although  they  left  His  altar  blank  and  bare; 
Their  ruthless  hands  could  never  rend  and  tear 
More  than  the  walls,  they  could  not  hope  to  sway 
The  utter  faith  that  is  the  nation's  heart; 
They  could  not  bring  a  real  destruction  where 
Hymn  music  had  been  softly  wont  to  play ! 
They  smothered  beauty,  and  tore  hope  apart; 
But  in  the  house  of  One  who  is  supreme, 
The  marks  they  left  will  now  be  sanctified; 
The  broken  walls,  when  war  is  but  a  dream, 
Will  be  a  monument  to  those  who  died; 
And  every  shell-torn  scar  will  stand  for  One 
Whose  hands  were  scarred,  the  Christ  men  crucified ! 

I  think,  perhaps,  the  very  morning  sun, 
Will  slant  more  gently  through  the  broken  tower — 
And,  in  good  season,  that  some  tender  flower 
Will  bloom  beside  the  ruined  threshold,  where 
Folk  paused  before  they  entered  in  to  prayer.    .    .    . 


149 


CHILD  FACES 

Child  faces  saddened,  older  than  they  should  be, 

And  wiser  than  a  lived-out  span  of  years; 
One  wonders  what  those  self  same  faces  would  be, 

If  they  had  never  looked  on  pain — if  tears 
Had  never  been  their  portion;  if  the  morrow, 

Had  never  held  the  pallid  ghost  of  care — • 
Child  faces,  graven  deep  with  worlds  of  sorrow, 

Until  the  light  of  childhood  is  not  there! 

Child  faces,  once  agleam  with  carefree  laughter, 

Wide  eyes,  where  smiles  like  baby  rainbows  grew; 
They  are  the  heritage  of  ever  after, 

They  are  the  dreams  that  never  will  come  true. 
They  are  the  words  of  fate  that  have  been  spoken, 

And  when  the  tumult  of  the  war  is  gone, 
They  will  remind  a  world  that  hearts  were  broken, 

For,  in  their  souls,  France  goes  to  meet  her  dawn ! 


150 


AFTER  HEARING  MUSIC  COMING  FROM  A 
DEVASTATED  FARMHOUSE 

Just  a  little  wisp  of  song  played  softly  in  the  twilight, 

Such  a  happy  little  song — and  oh,  the  dusk  is  gray ! 

Such   a   joyous   little   song,   and   oh,   the   night   is 

coming — 

Coming  with  the  bitter  chill  that  marks  the  death 
of  day. 

Almost  like  a  dance  it  is,  it  holds  no  hint  of 'sorrow, 
Almost  like  a  waltz  it  is,  to  set  the  pulse  a-thrill; 

Not  a  hint  of  tears  in  it — and  oh,  the  night  is 

coming — 
Coming  like  a  purple  shroud  across  the  purple  hill ! 

Sad  the  little  farmhouse  is,  the  doors  swing  on  their 
hinges, 

All  the  windows  look  like  wounds,  pitiful  and  bare, 
And  a  shell  has  torn  a  gash  in  the  broken  roof  of  it, 

But  the  music  lilts  along  like  a  happy  prayer. 

Do  pale  ghostly  fingers  play  on  a  ghostly  violin? 

(War  has  swept  the  countryside  of  the  songs  it 

knew ! ) 
Merry  is  the  little  tune — not  a  wistful  questioning — 

Merry  with  a  rosy  thrill  of  a  dream  come  true. 

Just  a  little  wisp  of  song  played  softly  in  the  twilight, 

Such  a  happy  little  song — and  oh,  the  dusk  is  gray ! 

Such   a  joyous   little   song,   and   oh,   the   night   is 

coming — 

Coming  with  the  bitter  chill  that  marks  the  death 
of  dayl 


151 


RETURN 

Now  that  the  tumult  of  the  war  is  over, 

The  fairy  folk  are  coming  back  to  France ; 
They   push   their   way  through   tangled   grass   and 
clover, 

To  find  the  ring  where  once  they  used  to  dance. 
They  come  half-wistfully,  the  little  people, 

Through  broken  town,  and  battered  market  place, 
They   come   past   shell-torn   church  with   shattered 
steeple, 

They  come  as  smiles  come  to  a  tear-stained  face. 

They  come  with  packs  of  dreams,  with  love   and 
laughter, 

They  come  with  songs  rolled  snugly  up  in  sacks; 
They  come  with  promises  for  ever  after, 

Tied  neatly  into  bundles  on  their  backs ! 
They  bring  the  seeds  of  magic  so  that  flowers, 

The  flowers  of  new  happiness  and  mirth, 
May  bloom,  once  more,  in  sweet  enchanted  bowers, 

Above  the  heart-ache  of  a  tortured  earth. 

Now  that  the  angry  powder  smoke  has  vanished, 

The  fairy  folk  are  coming  as  of  yore, 
The  fairy  folk  that  hate  and  war  had  banished  .   .   . 

They  pause  beside  a  loosely  swinging  door, 
To  set  it  right  on  hinges  that  were  breaking, 

They  lift  an  old  rag  doll  with  tender  care, 
And  hurry  on — because  their  hearts  are  aching, 

For  one-time  childish  faces  that  were  there. 


152 


They  cross  forgotten  meadows  in  the  gloaming, 

Through  forest  aisles  at  even-time  they  creep ; 
Where  trenches  were,  their  little  feet  ere  roaming, 

And  where  the  heroes  of  the  conflict  sleep, 
They  stop,  a  moment,  wistful — and  their  singing 

Dies  down  into  the  semblance  of  a  prayer; 
And  tiny  bells  in  far-off  elf  land  ringing, 

Sound,  like  a  silver  promise,  on  the  air. 

Now  that  the  tumult  of  the  war  is  over, 
Once  more  the  country  wale  ens  to  romance; 

For,  through  the  tangle  of  the  grass  and  clover, 
The  fairy  folk  are  coming  back  to  France. 


153 


THE  PHOENIX 

The  ruined  wheat  fields  lying  in  the  sun 
Will  smile  again,  e'er  many  seasons  pass; 
The  crooning  breeze  will  sway  the  golden  grass, 
The  way  it  did  before  a  blazing  gun, 
Mowed  down  the  meadow  poppies  in  red  heaps; 
And  battered  villages  will  rise  anew, 
And  homes  will  stand  where  one-time  gardens  grew. 
And,  in  dim  forests  where  an  army  sleeps, 
The  little  birds  will  sing  their  evening  songs, 
The  way  they  did  before  a  blasting  rain, 
Of  shrapnel  cut  their  tiny  nests  in  twain; 
For  France  will  rise,  triumphant,  from  her  wrongs — 

Yes,  France  will  rise  once  more  in  faith,  and  pave 
Her  roads  anew  with  shattered  stones  of  life, 
Her  songs  will  rise,  once  more,  above  the  strife — 

But  what  about  the  hearts  that  gave — and  gave ! 


154 


A  PRAYER  ON  EASTER  FOR  OUR  BOYS 
KILLED  IN  ACTION 

Dear  God,  they  will  not  come  again,  those  lads  of 

ours, 

Who  went  to  fight  with  honor's  foe  across  the  sea — 
Who  died  with  eyes  set  straight  ahead,  amid  the 

showers 

Of  shrapnel,  as  they  cleared  a  path  to  victory. 
They  will  not  come  again    .    .    .    And  it  is  Easter 

weather, 

And  all  the  world  is  waking  to  the  call  of  life, 
But  they  lie  sleeping,  Over  There,  our  lads,  together, 
Who  died  before  their  hearts  could  know  the  end 
of  strife. 

Dear  God,  they  will  not  come  again,  those  lads  of 

ours, 

Who  left  this  land  so  gallantly  to  do  their  best — 
And  so  I  ask  that  You  will  send  gay  springtime 

flowers, 
To  deck  each  shell-torn  meadow  where  their  bodies 

rest. 

I  ask  that  You  will  let  them  hear  the  joyous  singing, 
Of   some    deep-throated   bird    whose    heart  tones 

throb  and  swell; 
God,  let  them  feel  the  thrill  that  Easter  time  is 

bringing, 

That  death  is  only  life  asleep — and  all  is  well ! 

AMEN. 


155 


INDEPENDENCE  DAY— 1919 

Over  the  mists  of  a  century  they  come,  and  their 

tramping  feet 
Are  light  as  the  dust  on  the  broad  highway,  or  the 

wind  that  sways  in  the  wheat; 
Out  of  the  haze  of  the  years  between  their  shadowy 

hands  stretch  wide 
To  welcome  the  heroes  home  again  who  have  fought 

for  their  cause  and  died. 

They  went  to  battle  at  Concord  Bridge,  and  they  fell 

on  Bunker  Hill; 
The  odds  were  great,  but  they  struggled  on  with  a 

stubborn  Yankee  will; 
They  lay  in  the  fields  at  Lexington  when  the  sun  in 

the  west  was  red, 
And  the  next  year's  violets  grew  on  the  spot  where 

their  valiant  blood  was  shed. 

But  they  won  in  the  end — with  their  broken  guns 

and  without  much  food  to  spare, 
Won  at  the  end  of  a  bitter  war,  by  means  that  they 

knew  were  fair; 
And  some  of  them  wandered  back  to  their  plows,  and 

some  lay  wrapped  in  the  loam, 
And  slept  the  sleep  of  the  fearless  heart  that  has 

fought  at  home — for  home ! 

Fought  for  their  homes,  at  home,  they  did — but  these 

other  boys  today 
Fought  for  the  homes  of  stranger  folk  three  thousand 

miles  away; 
Fought  for  the  honor  of  the  world,  and  were  not 

afraid  to  die 
In  a  muddy  trench,  in  a  foreign  land,  and  under  a 

foreign  sky ! 

156 


They  fought  on  the  Marne,  at  Belleau  Wood;  they 

swept  through  the  mad  Argonne; 
Chateau-Thierry  was  theirs  to  take ;  they  took  it  and 

then  surged  on ; 
And  now  that  the  fight  they  fought  is  won,  though 

they  lie  in  a  far-off  grave, 
Their  souls  come  back  to  the  land  they  loved — the 

land  that  they  left  to  save. 

And  so,  through  the  damp  of  the  sorry  sea,  through 

the  wreck  of  the  shell-torn  plain, 
They  are  coming  back  to  homes  they  loved — they 

are  coming  back  again! 
And  light  as  the  wind  that  sways  in  the  wheat,  or 

the  dust  on  the  broad  highway, 
They  march  to  their  rendezvous  with  the  ones  who 

died  in  the  yesterday. 


157 


SHADOWS 

You  come  to  me  at  twilight,  when  the  others, 

Are  laughing  in  the  fullness  of  their  joy; 
When  glad-eyed  women  folk,  when  wives  and  mothers, 

Are  welcoming  some  other  bronze-cheeked  boy. 
You  come  to  me,  all  silent,  in  the  gloaming, 

A  shadow  form,  with  curly  shadow  hair — 
And,  dear,  I  somehow  feel  that  you  are  roaming 

Between  two  shadow  worlds — the  Here  and  There. 

They  ask  me,  do  those  others,  why  I  wander 
Down  dewy  lanes,  alone,  at  eventide — 

They  do  not  know  my  heart's  a  shadow — yonder.    .    . 
They  do  not  know  that  part  of  me  has  died. 

They  do  not  know  that  your  dear  presence  stands 

Just  out  of  reach  with  misty,  wide-flung  hands ! 


158 


L'ENVOI 

Only  we  two,  dear  .   .   .  and  the  candlelight, 
Seems  to  be  softer  than  it  was  before, 
Country  and  city,  vivid  dream  lands,  war — 

Dear,  they  are  very  far  from  us  to-night ! 

Woven  of  promise  from  life's  golden  loom, 

Pale  threads  of  light  have  bound  us  heart  to  heart ; 
Laughter  and  sorrow — they  are  things  apart — 

All  of  our  world  is  in  this  little  room. 

Outside  the  branches  sVay,  and  winter  weather 
Sweeps,  with  a  cry  of  triumph,  through  the  land 
Dear,  it  is  springtime,  when  you  touch  my  hand — 

Only  we  two,  and  magic,  here  together ! 


THE  END 


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